


Dawn of a New Age

by beetle



Series: Dawn of a New Age [2]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: LOTR, M/M, The Hobbit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:45:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 147,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the dawn of a new age in Erebor. Life goes along at its own jangling pace. Everyone is still adjusting. Thorin and Bilbo have grown . . . closer, but Bilbo's memory—his lack thereof—comes between them. Can be read as a standalone, but written as a sequel to “Defiled," which is here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/746030.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn of a New Age 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Set post the retaking of Erebor. (And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own the big bagel.

At the end of an incredibly long day—six months into the process of setting Erebor to rights, and there's still, easily, years worth of work left to do, still thousands of dwarves streaming slowly back to their ancestral home, and all looking to their king to make things right immediately—Thorin drags his weary body through the halls of the royal wing, to the royal library, which, except for the natural ravages of time and no care, had weathered Smaug's reign rather well.  
   
Or so Thorin has been told by the few librarians who've made their way back to Erebor's halls of knowledge.  
   
He makes his way quietly through the stacks, to the reading areas. No one is there except for one, lone reader, his head bowed over a book—a  _tome_  really, and likely of history—one arm propping up his head, the other carefully, slowly turning a page.  
   
For a few minutes, Thorin simply watches Bilbo Baggins read, the gentle lamplight rendering his features lambent and exquisite. Something about watching Bilbo like this—and this is not the first time Thorin has done so—makes it easier for Thorin to breathe—makes his lungs and his heart fill like sails in a strong wind.  
   
So he watches, and lets the weariness of the day fall away from him. Even as he stands there, gazing with the strange sense of yearning that has bedeviled him of late, he feels filled with renewed purpose.  
   
 _You have made this possible, Bilbo Baggins,_  he thinks, also not for the first time.  _You have given me this chance to make things right for my people. I will not waste it._  
   
Taking a few steps back into the stacks, Thorin brushes a shelf, lets his foot fall audibly, and clears his throat. Bilbo starts a little, looking up. When he sees Thorin, that absent, mildly annoyed look leaves his face and is replaced by the sunny, sweet smile that does strange things to Thorin's heart, such as cause it to beat faster, or stop beating altogether . . . for the space of a few seconds, anyway.  
   
“Thorin!” Bilbo sits up straighter, though he no longer stands and bows—at Thorin's insistence that he not do so. “I didn't expect to see you at all today. Especially not so late. It's after midnight!”  
   
Thorin nods. “That, it is. You should be abed, resting.”  
   
Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up. “Well, so should you. You've had a long day, or so I'm told.”  
   
Not bothering to ask who's done the telling—no doubt it's Bofur, who has, since the retaking of Erebor, and becoming a part of Thorin's Court, remained . . . fast friends with the hobbit—Thorin approaches the reading table, eschewing the chair across from Bilbo for the one next to him.  
   
“A long day in a steady stream of them. I've grown used to it . . . what're you reading?” Thorin asks, lifting the tome just enough to read the cover. “Huh. A primer on Khuzdul. Well. I'm surprised the librarians accepted my edict and didn't come weeping and moaning to me about an outsider requesting this book.”  
   
Laughing, Bilbo shrugs. “Oh, I've received more than my share of looks since I started my studies. And they still won't let me take the primer out of the library. But I don't mind studying here. It's . . . peaceful. I've spent whole days down here, soaking it all in.” Bilbo sighs in contentment. Then his eyes twinkle wickedly. “And soon I'll finally be able to understand the jokes Fili and Kili tell when they're in their cups.” He grins and laughs, and Thorin finds himself smiling.  
  
He hasn't, of late, spent much time with his nephews beyond royal business, and that fact makes him melancholy for times past, when the pair were younger, and Thorin didn't have so many responsibilities vying for his attention. . . .  
   
But for the moment, however, he has no responsibilities and nothing keeping him from fully enjoying  _Bilbo's_  company, at least. “Well, let us see how far along you are in your studies . . . _Dayamu Khuzan-ai menu._ ”  
   
Bilbo repeats the phrase to himself then frowns. “You're . . . leaving, is that it? What you said is basically a good-bye-and-blessings-upon-you sort of phrase, isn't it?” And he seems so downcast that Thorin chuckles, putting a hand on Bilbo's shoulder, as always, grateful that he may do so. In the months since he was . . . hurt by Azog—who now has a price on his head high enough to ransom many of the lesser kingdoms of Middle Earth—Bilbo has become able to . . . tolerate the touch of another, provided the touch isn't too sudden or too extended.  
   
Except when it comes to Thorin. When  _Thorin_  puts an arm around him, or a hand on his shoulder, Bilbo seems quite content for that arm or hand to remain.  
   
This is another fact that makes Thorin's heart beat faster, with a hope that he cannot put a name to.  
   
“I am not leaving,” he says softly, squeezing Bilbo's shoulder. “I merely wished to see what you knew.”  
   
Bilbo huffs, but can't quite hide his smile, and certainly not the return of that twinkle in his eyes. "Huh. Cheeky."  
   
Thorin bursts out laughing. "No one's called me 'cheeky' since I was younger than Kili."  
   
"Well, then, I'd say you're quite overdue for it." Bilbo finally lets his smile out, and it's just as warm and kind as Thorin knew it would be. "At any rate, I was starting nod off over that damned primer. And I'm certain that if I drool on one of their precious tomes, the librarians will see me hanged from the rafters!"  
   
"Not while  _I'm_  king of this mountain," Thorin rumbles, only half-jokingly. "You have my permission to drool on all the books you wish to."  
   
Bilbo chuckles. "I'll be careful not to let the power go to my head." He closes the book with a satisfied  _thump_. "So, I doubt you've eaten anything since breakfast."  
   
Thorin rolls his eyes. "Time passes, things have a way of happening . . . problems come up. . . ."  
   
"All of which means you haven't eaten since breakfast. Which was technically yesterday."  
   
Thorin turns a little red. "The king never  _forgets_  to eat. He simply . . . declines the opportunity to do so."  
   
Bilbo rolls  _his_  eyes, now. "Well, I trust you won't decline an offer to join me for a late supper? Whatever Cook has left, at this hour?"  
   
Thorin stands up and bows, a gesture which never fails to bring a flush to Bilbo's cheeks and an extra sparkle to his eyes. Which is exactly why Thorin does it as often as he can get away with it. "I would be delighted to, Mister Baggins."  
   
He offers Bilbo his hand and Bilbo takes it without hesitation, letting Thorin pull him to his feet. For a few moments they stand like that, close together, holding hands, and gazing into each others' eyes. Then Bilbo looks away and Thorin clears his throat, and they step apart, hands separating almost reluctantly.  
   
Thorin makes a sweeping gesture. "After you," he says briskly, flustered for no apparent reason, which makes him terse. But Bilbo is quite used to Thorin's terseness, and steps past him with a shy smile, trailing that faint hint of new grass that makes Thorin breathe in deeply every time he catches the scent.  
 

*

  
   
Thorin opens his eyes at ungodly o'clock in the morning.  
   
The mountain is barely awake, he senses, and groans, rolling onto his back. Outside, the sun has likely barely painted the canvas of the sky. The birds probably haven't begun to sing, he's certain.  
  
He sighs up at the ceiling, one hand scratching his chest, the other sliding under the sheets to take care of the morning's first order of business. As usual, he's quick and efficient about it, not lingering overlong. And if he finishes while imagining a smiling face made ruddy-gold by candlelight, blue eyes seeming to glow not with the aforementioned candlelight, but with some _inner_  light that Thorin has never seen in anyone else . . . what of that?  
   
The second order of the day is preparing for the bulk of it. Bathing, eating a quick, but hearty—Cook knows his ways, and knows he'll not be seeing food again for at least fourteen hours, if not longer—breakfast, then dressing for the day in one of his many stiff, ceremonial (read: _ridiculous_ , but Balin was right, about the time having come for Thorin to stand out for who and what he is . . . a king) tunics and breeches.  
  
And the damned  _robe and crown_.  
   
Then it'll be off to meet his with his advisers, for the  _real_  morning business. They'll come, as always, bearing news of Erebor and of the outside world. Thorin will listen to it all, the good, the bad, and the ugly.  
   
After that, it'll be time for Court-and-Petitions, which involves allocating land and settling disputes, reassigning wealth—after a fashion—greeting those dwarves who are newly-returned to Erebor, and basically listening to every bad thing that has happened to every one of his scattered people for the past sixty years, and doling out gold accordingly.  
   
And then, of course, there’ll be overseeing the repairs that need to be done—and they  _are_  rather extensive. Much of Erebor is not livable or workable, due to fire and smoke damage, and cave-ins. A rather sizable amount of the treasury’s gone to hiring dwarves to help shore up, fix, and clean damaged caverns and mines.  
  
There’s more than enough honest, hard work to go around, and Thorin still doesn’t have enough of a staff to delegate the hiring of these dwarves willing to do it. He and Balin meet with most of these individuals in person before sending them on to the overseers of the different repair projects.  
   
Then it’ll be time for the afternoon Court-and-Petitions session, which is mainly an outlet for frustrated members of Thorin’s staff, including the librarians, the miners, the weavers, the minters, the blacksmiths, the herders and hostlers, and so on, and so forth.  
   
And by the time Thorin’s heard the last petition and greeted the last bunch of newly-returned Ereborians for that day, it’s past six o’clock. Just in time for the Evening Review, which should really only last until seven, but often times, runs till ten, or even later.  
   
Sighing, Thorin pauses as he passes his mirror, and adjusts the ridiculous crown on his head.  
   
Thinking once more of Bilbo—to wonder what the hobbit is doing now, or if he's still abed, dreaming . . . whatever it is hobbits dream of—Thorin then dismisses such thoughts and pulls on the heavy mantle of King of the Mountain.  
 

*

  
   
The ruckus starts at the beginning of the afternoon session of Court-and-Petitions, when Thorin’s in the middle of adjudicating  a particularly thorny case of two miners and one rich, recently-discovered vein of mithril. Both are claiming the rights to mine it—the mithril, itself, of course, belongs to Thorin, but the miner who unearths it will be made richer than he can possibly imagine—and neither is especially credible about having been the one to find said vein in the first place.  
   
“I don’t like the looks of the one with the red hair,” Kili murmurs in Thorin’s left ear. In his right, Fili yawns.  
   
“That one with the hat like Bofur’s is a shifty character, I think,” he says. “I wouldn’t buy a pony from him, that’s for certain.”  
   
Thorin inwardly groans and wishes Balin were there, as well as his well-meaning, but ultimately unhelpful nephews. But Balin’s off on his usual business, rounding up the afternoon’s news and information for the Evening Review.  
   
The two miners have been screaming at each other—and, incidentally, at their king—for several minutes when, from the back of the small crowd, comes a . . . disturbance.  
   
“Excuse me—pardon me—coming through—watch the tray—look out behind you—“ a familiar voice is saying loudly, and the crowd definitely parts for it and the large silver tray it's carrying before it.  
   
Even the miners stop screaming when they realize no one is paying them any attention anymore.  
   
Thorin sits up straighter on his throne, craning his neck to see . . . Bilbo Baggins emerge from the crowd of dwarves, smiling that hapless, impossible to resist smile.  
   
“Ah! Your majesty!” he says, hurrying between the startled, wary miners, and past Thorin’s guards, who clearly don’t know what to make of this intrusion into the Court. Thorin waves a hand so that they know to stand down. Bilbo, who almost never comes to the throne room, shoots him a thankful look then gracefully climbs the steps leading up to the throne, his dancing, merry eyes on Thorin’s the entire way. As he gets closer, Thorin can smell . . .  _food_. Faint, but unmistakable. His stomach growls loudly and Bilbo's smile widens.  
  
At the top step, he pauses and bows, managing not to upset a single covered dish on the tray. “My king, I do so hate to interrupt you at Court, but I noted your usual lunchtime had come and gone, so I took the liberty of bringing lunch to you here,” he announces, approaching Thorin and kneeling at his feet, with the tray held up before him.  
   
“Being a little dramatic, aren’t we?” Fili leans down to whisper, eyeing the tray with interest. Bilbo looks up at him and winks.  
   
“How else was I supposed to get him to eat lunch like a normal person? At swordpoint?”  
   
“I’d pay to see that,” Kili murmurs, his eyes never leaving the two miners, and the milling, uncertain crowd of dwarves at their back. Thorin glares at them both, then glares at Bilbo, who simply continues smiling and holding up the tray. Thorin's mutinous stomach growls again.  
   
“Cook made pork chops and apple sauce, new potatoes and carrots in gravy, and for dessert, a raspberry tart,” Bilbo wheedles, glancing at Fili and Kili. “And there’s enough here for three.”  
   
“Brilliant!” Kili exclaims, then steps forward a bit to address the crowd of petitioners. “His majesty, King Thorin, will decide this case after a fifteen minute—“  
   
“Half an hour!” Bilbo hisses under his breath.  
   
“—er, half an hour for lunch. Court is recessed!”  
   
“But—my vein—“ one of the miners says, and the other snorts.  
   
“You mean  _my_  vein—oi! What’s this—“ he demands as Thorin’s guards start hustling everyone out of the throne room. In under a minute, the room is emptied of all save the royal family, Bilbo, and of course, the guards.  
   
“You—“ Thorin begins, still trying to maintain his glare in the face of an empty, blessedly  _quiet_ throne room and the sudden receding of a headache he'd barely noticed, used to it he is. But he _can’t_  maintain that glare. All he can do is watch as his nephews descend on hobbit and tray and begin helping themselves, lifting covers and  _ahh_ -ing. Thorin's stomach growls once again, almost plaintively, this time.  
  
“It’s  _that simple_? I can just—throw them all out so I can  _eat lunch_?” Thorin muses to no one in particular.  
   
Bilbo blinks, then smiles dazzlingly at him. “Of course it’s that easy. And you, my king, can do anything you want,” he says simply then smacks Kili’s hand away from his second helping of tart. “And  _you’ve_  already got one helping on your plate, Master Kili. That’s last piece is for Thorin. And Fili—perhaps your brother and uncle might like some potatoes and carrots, too, hmm?”  
   
Watching his nephews and Bilbo haggle over food, Thorin begins to smile. Then to laugh.  
   
It’s when he starts laughing that the three stop haggling and start staring at him as if he’s gone insane. But finally Bilbo  _hmphs_ , puts the tray down, and begins fixing up a plate. “I can see the food deprivation is getting to you, already.”  
   
He stands up, holding out a full plate, a knife, and a fork to Thorin who, still chuckling a little, takes it. “Thank you, Mister Baggins . . . for your thoughtfulness,” he adds, and Bilbo’s smile almost literally lights up the throne room.  
   
“It was no problem at all . . . your majesty.” Bilbo bows again, fringe obscuring his eyes, but not enough to disguise the amusement in them. Then he’s turning toward the stairs. “I’ll come back for the plates in about twenty-five minutes, or so, shall I?”  
   
“Must you go?” Thorin finds himself calling after the hobbit, who pauses half-way down the stairs. When Bilbo turns back, questions in his eyes, Thorin clears his throat. “Any brief distraction from this case will be a good one. And while we eat, Fili and Kili can drill you in Khuzdul.”  
   
“We can?” Kili asks, almost whines, and when Thorin glares up at him, Kili grins sheepishly around a mouthful of tart. “Ah, yes, of course we can, Mister Boggins.  _Ai-menu Duzhuk,_ ” he adds, bowing, and Bilbo bows back.  
  
“ _Dolzekh Menu,_ ” he replies, graciously, correctly, though it sounds strange in that rounded Shire accent. At once softer and more clipped than Thorin is used to. He fights a smile and sits back with his plate, listening to the stilted rudiments of conversation between Bilbo, and Kili and Fili.  
  
Unlike the older members of Thorin's court, Fili and Kili have no reservations about teaching a hobbit—no matter to the naysayers from the fellowship that said hobbit was named  _dwarf-friend_  and  _savior-of-the-king_ , and granted both land and a title—Khuzdul. Neither did Ori or Bofur, really, though Ori had no patience for such drills and Bofur . . . well, Bofur and Bilbo already spend more than enough time together without adding more to the mix.  
  
In fact, the former-toymaker spends his seemingly endless free time—really, with all that needed to be done around Erebor, how  _does_  Bofur find himself so free?—charming Bilbo and regaling him with those ridiculous stories of his. . . .  
  
Thorin supposes if he didn't have  _the running of a kingdom_  to worry about,  _he'd_  have time to charm hobbits and tell stories, too—  
  
“—what do you think, Thorin?”  
  
Thorin looks up from his brooding and his thus far untouched food. Bilbo has come back up the steps to stand before the throne, and he and Fili, and Kili are looking at him expectantly. “I—beg your pardon?”  
  
Bilbo smiles rather fondly. “I asked what you thought about making this an every-day sort of thing. A brief recess about half-way through C & P, and lunch on the fly.” His eyebrows quirk hopefully, and Thorin finds himself fighting another smile.  
  
“Eager to fatten me up, are you? Do I look so gaunt and shabby from a few missed lunches?” he asks, as playfully as he ever gets.   
  
“Actually you look . . . quite regal,” Bilbo says softly. Then he turns bright red and clears his throat, glancing away from Thorin's gaze. But he looks immediately back, his face creased with concern. “For a dwarf who's obviously trying to slowly starve himself to death, that is. How do you expect to keep up your strength if you're constantly skipping meals?”  
  
And because Bilbo seems genuinely upset—and because when Bilbo  _is_  upset, Thorin can deny him nothing—Thorin sighs. A put-upon sigh, though he can and would do  _anything_  for Bilbo, and is certain he can never do enough. “Alright. Since you're twisting my arm. Lunch everyday, at this time.”  
  
Bilbo nods, smiling that smile, and right on cue, Thorin's heart starts to beat faster. “Starting today.  _Eat_ ,” Bilbo commands, pointing at Thorin's untouched plate. “Before it gets cold.”  
  
Thorin rolls his eyes, but does as he's bidden, ignoring the sniggers coming from Kili and the knowing looks he and Fili share for the rest of lunch.  
  
Bilbo watches him devour every mouthful, and sooner, rather than later he bustles away with the considerably lighter tray and a satisfied smile. Thorin watches him go without realizing he's staring, until Kili elbows him.  
  
Looking over at his younger nephew, Thorin glares when he catches the smart-arse look on Kili's face. “Choose your next words very carefully, nephew.”  
  
Kili glances at Fili, who shrugs and says, without any apparent fear of Thorin's utterly empty threat: “Listen, it's obvious that you fancy him, uncle. So, you'd better do or say  _something_ better than staring after him when he walks away, because everyone except Kili and I have put their money on Bofur winning our fair burglar's affections.”  
  
Thorin's mouth drops open in an un-kingly gape.  
  
“Yes, and we do so  _hate_  losing. Especially when there's money involved,” Kili adds. Then seems to think on it a little more. “Also, we want to see you happy. You definitely smile more around Mister Boggins than I've ever seen you smile in my entire life.”  
  
Thorin's mouth closes with an audible click and he turns his face toward the entrance to the throne room, where a pair of guards is just letting the supplicants and the other petitioners back in. “We are  _not_  discussing this.”  
  
“Well, not  _now_ , of course. There's a case to decide,” Fili says reasonably, and Kili agrees. “Aye. And those shifty bloody miners aren't making it any easier.”  
  
“No, I mean we're not discussing this  _period_. Ever,” Thorin clarifies forbiddingly, despite the blush that creeps its way up his neck, to spread across his face. The last thing he wants is for Bilbo to  _know_  about his . . . unfortunate attraction. To have to deal with that on top of living in the aftermath of Azog's brutal violation . . . a violation which the hobbit still doesn't remember, but which manifests itself in the forms of fear of strangers, fear of touch, and night terrors . . . to have to deal with Thorin's unseemly desire would be far too much for the hobbit. “And you are _never_  to bring this up to Mister Baggins, am I clear?”  
  
He can sense Fili and Kili sharing another glance.  
  
Fili puts a hand on Thorin's shoulder. When Thorin looks over at his older nephew, Fili's brow is furrowed in understanding. “Uncle . . . is this about . . . what Azog did to him?”  
  
Thorin pales, and looks away, brushing Fili's hand away more harshly than he means to . . . though not by much. “Discussion  _over_. Mind your own affairs.”  
  
Then the miners are close enough that the details of their bickering can be heard clearly. It exacerbates the receding headache Thorin had just been getting rid of and he has absolutely had _enough_ : “ _SILENCE_!”  
  
And finally, instantly, they're silent. A surprised, fearful sort of silence that spreads throughout the crowd of waiting petitioners. Even the guard tenses up.  
  
Thorin sits forward, eyes narrowed. “I will have no more of this strife in my mountain. You will work the vein together for equal shares of the profit or I will award the mining rights to another of my choosing.”  
  
“But your majesty—“  
  
“King Thorin, please—“  
  
Thorin stands up and marches down the steps, toward the miners—who back up and to the side, off the fierce look on Thorin's face—then past them. “Your case has been decided. Court is recessed for the day.”  
  
The crowd parts as Thorin strides through it, looks of both awe and fear writ large on the simple faces of his people. The people for whom he and so many have sacrificed so much. Bilbo Baggins, not least of all. . . .  
  
The fragile hope that had dared rear its head the night before feels in direct danger of guttering . . . or going out entirely. And though Thorin knows he should  _let_  it be extinguished . . . he finds that he can't. That he'd rather live with a hopeless hope, than no hope at all.  
  
Stalking down corridor and hall, meeting every gaze he crosses with a ferocious sort of glare, Thorin is halfway to his chambers when he realizes where he's going . . . and where he  _really_ wants to be.  
  
Turning back the way he came—nearly knocking over a young maid who'd been scurrying along in his wake with a huge basket full of clean sheets—he makes his way toward the royal library and his hopeless hope.


	2. Dawn of a New Age 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Erebor continues at its own jangling pace. Everyone is still adjusting. Thorin and Bilbo have grown . . . closer. But so have Bilbo and Bofur, and everyone’s money seems to be on Bofur winning our fair burglar’s affections. But Bilbo is still dealing with the devastation of Azog’s defilement of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled,” which is in my works list. Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Said hopeless hope is  _not_  in the library, as usual, and none of the librarians—surly, terse but obsequious to their king—know where he is.  
  
“Though,” one of them adds as Thorin is leaving, “that member of your Court—the toymaker with the ridiculous hat . . . he marched in here a short time ago claiming that he needed to see Master Baggins about something very important.” Frowning into his bushy grey beard the librarian shrugs. “After pointing out Mr. Baggins’ whereabouts, I lost track of them.”  
  
And a pointed sniff tells Thorin such track-losing had indeed been on purpose. The librarians still resent Bilbo’s presence among them—and Bilbo using the library to learn Khuzdul, no less—edict, or not. And that’s something Thorin will certainly have to address soon. But not now.  
  
Without even noticing how the librarians draw back a bit fearfully—without realizing that he’s glaring grimly, practically snarling—Thorin turns in a swirl of robe and marches out of the library.  
  
“Still,” one of the younger librarians says hesitantly, as he and the others stare after their agitated king. “My money’s on the toymaker for winning that Baggins fellow.”  
  


*

  
  
Bofur has  _not_  taken Master Baggins to his rooms—hopefully  _that_ , and that alone is the reason for the lack of answer to Thorin’s knocking—and Thorin, though completely stymied, now, as to where they could be, is nonetheless relieved. The idea of Master Baggins and Bofur in the latter’s rooms, talking and laughing . . . in private . . . bothers Thorin greatly. No matter that they’ve likely been so before. Even to Thorin, who has no ear for gossip—leaving that, instead, to his nephews and to Balin—it’s well-known that the Retriever of the Arkenstone is close friends with a certain Chief Inventor (said title suggested by Balin since, in the time that Erebor has been recovered, Bofur’s invented several handy devices and machines that have not only made mining easier and safer for those involved, but has also completed a few side projects that have awed even members of the company, who know him best . . . Chief Inventor, indeed).  
  
What’s less well-known to Thorin is Bofur’s ultimate intentions toward Master Baggins.  
  
For certain, Bofur has always cared greatly for the hobbit. From the beginning of the quest till the very end. Had almost always been the one to take time to show the hobbit how to do the necessary things for survival on the road, much like Fili and Kili would, but without the teasing. The pair was often thick as thieves, sharing jokes and stories, and laughing. . . .  
  
Master Baggins, it seems, loves to laugh—not exactly a secret—and no one makes him laugh as hard or as often as Bofur does. It’s certainly no wonder that he spends so much time with Erebor’s Chief Inventor.  
  
 _Perhaps, then, instead of shirking my duties as king, I should leave them to it . . . and if, indeed, Bofur is courting Master Baggins, then it should be down to Master Baggins whether they continue to spend time together or not. Me bursting in upon them, whatever they’re doing together, would solve nothing._  Thorin thinks miserably, unaware that his shoulders have slumped just a bit, as he walks back toward Court. Taking the long way around, the one that would take him through the royal wing and past a certain Burglar’s rooms.  _And worse . . . what if I inadvertently drove Master Baggins into Bofur’s arms?  
  
Though that is unlikely. Master Baggins is no reactionary,_  Thorin admits to himself, with a lightening of his glower.  _After what happened . . . after what that monster did to him, Bilbo—_ Master Baggins _is still adjusting. Still trying to find some semblance of normalcy. He barely allows anyone but me to touch him for any reason. He still rarely sleeps through the night without waking up screaming from nightmares he can’t remember. That’s why he spends so many night hours in the library. He’s far from ready for the attentions of a suitor. Let alone a . . . lover as . . . overwhelming as I suspect Master Chief Inventor would be. Bofur knows that as well as I do, and he’d cut off his own right arm before he’d hurt Master Baggins. Surely I’m overreacting._  
  
Telling himself that all the way to Bilbo’s rooms, Thorin reaches them in a less agitated, yet somehow more concerned state.  
  
He raises his fist and knocks gently on the doors. He’s both pleased and surprised when he gets an answer. Though less so when he realizes what that answer is.  
  
“Please go away . . . now is not a good time for a visit,” Master Baggins calls softly—Thorin barely hears him—sounding rather downcast. Thorin immediately pushes the left door open, steps in, and closes it behind himself.  _Locks_  it.  
  
He glances around the antechamber he finds himself in. It’s neat and welcoming and reminds Thorin strongly of Bag End. What little of Bag End he remembers, that is. It’s a very  _Bilbo_  sort of room, as is the rest of Master Baggins’ quarters. Thorin’s seen them often enough in the course of their friendship, having been invited in for tea and dinner quite frequently. Having been lead to these very rooms by his ears and his instinct on nights when the hobbit’s night terrors were particularly bad, and the screams no doubt woke the entire royal wing. . . .  
  
Lately, the night terrors haven’t been so bad. Thorin dares to hope that this means Gandalf was wrong, and that Master Baggins’ mind and heart will eventually be able to heal fully without remembering the horrific violation he suffered at Azog’s wretched hands.  
  
Lately, Master Baggins has been able to be around crowds of people—strangers, even—without fleeing as if the hounds of Hell, itself, are after him. He’s been out visiting with members of the fellowship more than he used to. Especially with a certain Chief Inventor—  
  
Thorin shakes such thoughts free of his mind and heart. His own jealousy has no place in these rooms, or in his time with Master Baggins.  
  
He stalks through the antechamber, into the equally homey living area, noting that the fire in this room is dying. Then he’s barging into the large-ish bedchamber, from whence Master Baggins’ voice had issued .  
  
There, on the huge—for a lone hobbit—bed, Master Baggins lay on the very edge of the bed on his side, facing away from Thorin. The fireplace in  _this_  room is roaring, but despite that, Master Baggins is still shivering, arms wrapped around himself.  
  
“Please go away,” Master Baggins says again, softly, but obviously without any hope that his visitor will obey. Yet he doesn’t even look up as Thorin, no silent wraith, makes his way closer, fists clenching, mind whirling with all sorts of suppositions that might end with Bofur’s—or surely  _someone’s_ —head on a pike.  
  
Thorin stops at the foot of the bed, forcing his grim face into something more . . . sociable. “Bil—Master Baggins . . . it’s Thorin. . . .”  
  
“I know.” Master Baggins laughs a little, watery and rueful, glancing over his shoulder, his tear-ravaged face still wet. “I always know when it’s you, Thorin.” Turning away from Thorin once more with a sigh, his shivers intensify. “Now, please . . . go away.”  
  
Normally, Thorin would. Normally, he’d obey such a request from Bilbo Baggins. But then, normally Bilbo Baggins  _wouldn’t make_  such a request. At least not of Thorin. And that alone makes this request worth denying.  
  
“No,” Thorin says just as softly, sitting carefully on the foot of the bed, within reaching distance of Master Baggins’ silly, furry feet. He very nearly does reach out and place his hand on Master Baggins’ ankle . . . but at the last moment he stays his hand. “Tell me what is wrong, Master Baggins, that I may fix it.”  
  
Another teary laugh. “You can’t fix this, Thorin. No one can. Everything’s just . . .  _wrong_  . . . and it always will be. At least for me.”  
  
Frowning, Thorin reaches out again, and when his hand settles on Master Baggins’ ankle, the hobbit gasps and flinches, as he hasn’t done—at least when Thorin’s touched him—since the very first morning after that awful night. . . .  
  
 _But he was doing so well . . . what could have possibly set him back so much? What—?_  Thorin slowly removes his hand and sighs. What, indeed? What has ever set Master Baggins’ back in his recovery from Azog’s assault, but touches that weren’t wanted? Being amongst too many strangers at once? Or especially  _horrible_  night terrors?  
  
And Thorin can easily guess which had set Master Baggins’ back, today, and it certain wasn’t the latest in a series of quiet nights, or the small crowd of petitioners he’d braved earlier to bring Thorin lunch.  
  
Sighing, Thorin stares down at his hands. Large and capable, they’ve created and fixed many things. But here, before him, shivering so, is something his hands cannot fix. Cannot even  _touch_. . . and for that, Azog will someday pay . . . as will whoever’s set Master Baggins back so far that even Thorin’s touch repulses him.  
  
“Master Baggins,” he begins, swallowing his anger and impatience—releasing his hands from their tight clench, Thorin tries to gentle his voice, aware that he’s only partially successful. “Tell me what what causes you such pain, and I promise you, the matter will be addressed swiftly.”  
  
“There’s nothing  _to_  address, Thorin. What can’t be remembered can’t be addressed, can it?” Master Baggins sighs and rolls onto his back, sitting up slowly, as if his entire body aches. His face is patently miserable, the light that usually shines from him like the sun shuttered and melancholy, like moonlight seen through clouds.  
  
Thorin wants nothing more than to embrace the hobbit and hold him until . . . well, simply  _until_.  
  
Master Baggins wipes at his eyes and shudders. “I—are you cold?” Master Baggins interrupts himself to ask, not waiting for an answer as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll build up the fire—”  
  
“Let me,” Thorin says, standing up and crossing to the hearth before Master Baggins can even stand. He tosses a few extra logs onto the fire and pokes at them till the fire’s big enough to make him, in his robe of office and ridiculous crown, begin to sweat.  
  
When he’s satisfied with the state of the room—hotter than a forge—he shrugs off the robe and tosses it at the right of a pair of chairs near the hearth. The crown gets dropped on top of it.  
  
Master Baggins watches this with wide eyes, finally swinging his feet back up onto the bed as Thorin approaches. He gestures hesitantly for Thorin to sit once more.  
  
And so they sit in silence for long moments, listening to the fire hiss and pop, carefully not meeting each other’s gazes.  
  
“I think . . . I think it’s time that I leave Erebor,” Master Baggins says quietly, picking at the edge of the coverlet. Thorin blinks and gapes. “I . . . Gandalf was right, after all, you know? I’m n-not getting any better. Except to have something relatively inconsequential come along and make me worse, again. Like today.” Master Baggins shakes his head tiredly.  
  
Thorin, stepping over Master Baggins’ completely ludicrous decision to  _leave_ , leans closer to the hobbit, his hand touching the coverlet just near those fuzzy feet. “And pray, what  _did_  happen today, Master Baggins?”  
  
Master Baggins searches Thorin’s eyes doubtfully, reluctantly. “If I tell you, you promise not to rush out with Goblin-Cleaver looking for someone to behead or something?”  
  
Rather than make a promise he’s unlikely to keep, Thorin answers the question with one of his own: “Was it so bad that it would drive me to kill?”  
  
Another searching glance. Then, finally: “That would depend upon your definition of  _bad_.” But Master Baggins sighs again and reaches for something on his night table. He looks at it, almost smiling, before holding it out to Thorin, who, frowning once more, takes it.  
  
It’s a bracelet of mithril—made for a hobbit-sized wrist, with a simple but lovely pattern of trifoliate leaves and a centerpiece with a glass face that looks almost like a clock, in miniature. There’re even numbers engraved under the tiny face, two hands that are  _moving_ , and a very quiet ticking sound emanating from the bracelet.  
  
The whole thing is light and cool on Thorin’s palm, and shines with the quiet, honest light of an evening star.  
  
“Bofur calls it a  _watch_ ,” Master Baggins says quietly, that almost-smile turning into a real, but small one. “It tells the time, just like a full-sized clock.”  
  
“A wrist-mounted timepiece . . . clever,” Thorin says with reluctant admiration, hefting the _watch_  then handing it back to Master Baggins, who brushes a fingers down the leaf-design, to the hasp, before placing it back on his night table. “And am I allowed to inquire what prompted such a generous gift from Master Bofur?”  
  
Master Baggins meets Thorin’s eyes candidly, somberly. “Bofur’s asked if he might . . . court me. And the  _watch_  was his first gift.” He blushes and finally looks away, picking at the edge of the coverlet again. At least till Thorin reaches out and stills the hobbit’s smaller hands with his own larger one. This time, Master Baggins doesn’t flinch or wince or pull away, merely looks up at Thorin with wary eyes.  
  
Thorin opens his mouth, uncertain what he wants to say—the words so jostle and fight to come out of his mouth all at once—only that what he’d not one hour ago dismissed as overreacting has come horribly true.  
  
“And this . . .  _watch_  . . . was it a gift with or without strings?” Off Master Baggins’ confused look, Thorin, clear his throat and clarifies gruffly. “Was Master Bofur in any way . . . inappropriate with you? Did he try to press any advantage he might have had?”  
  
“ _Bofur_?” Master Baggins snorts. “He’d never!”  
  
Something that’d been clenched like a giant fist within Thorin’s chest releases slowly. “Well. That is good, then.”  
  
Master Baggins smiles limply. “Twice in one lifetime would be piling on, wouldn’t you say? Even for someone with my abysmal luck.”  
  
Thorin squeezes the slim, clever hands under his own. “I am . . . sorry. I did not mean to cast aspersions on Master Bofur, or recall what you’d rather forget, but . . . I worry over you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Thorin has to look away from Master Baggins’ unguarded gaze. “So . . . have you accepted his suit? Will you?” Thorin adds when Master Baggins shakes his head once in negation.  
  
“How could I?” Master Baggins gently removes his hands from Thorin’s. “Even if I was madly in love with him, he deserves better than someone who can’t even abide his merest touch. Someone whose nightmares would drive him out their marriage bed. Someone who can’t even go out into New Dale alone because he fears bloody  _Azog_  around every corner—” he cuts himself off, burying his face in his hands, and Thorin’s guilt rises in him like gorge. Like the bitterest bile.  
  
No matter the size of the bounty, Azog the Defiler has still not been found or caught, dead or alive. And for this, Thorin can only blame himself. For Master Baggins’  _fear_ , he can only blame himself.  
  
“I am sorry, Master Baggins,” he says lowly, and the hobbit looks up questioningly as Thorin takes one of his hands again.  
  
“Sorry for what?”  
  
“For . . . not being able to present his head to you on a platter.”  
  
Master Baggins smiles again, wryly, his hands falling into his lap. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.  _I’m_  the one with the irrational fear. Azog, the Defiler, in New Dale? Strutting around the bazaars amongst the carpets and other wares?” He snorts again, shaking his head, and squeezes Thorin’s hand back. “It’s a silly, stupid fear, and I  _know_  it’s a silly, stupid fear. And it’s shrinking my life a bit more each day, till one day, I won’t even be able to leave these rooms to go to the library. I can’t . . . I can’t live like that, Thorin. I just can’t. And that’s why I have to leave. To seek out help, while I still can.”  
  
Shaking his own head, Thorin leans closer, holding Master Baggins’ tired, but determined gaze with his own. “Where is it you would seek help? Where, that I may send to whatever reaches of the globe you say and have it brought here to  _you_? To your  _home_?”  
  
Master Baggins’ eyes widen for a moment, then he smiles wearily. “It’s not that simple, Thorin. One doesn’t just summon the greatest healer in Middle Earth to Erebor—not even the King Under the Mountain.”  
  
Thorin thinks for a moment then sighs. “You mean to seek the help of Lord Elrond, then.”  
  
Nodding, Master Baggins bites his lip. “He was so very kind to me. And there is no injury that would remain under the touch of his hands. I’m hoping that he can . . . cure me, fix me—or at least point me in the right direction of one of those.”  
  
Thorin frowns down at the small hand in his own for several minutes. It’s a chilly hand, despite the rather uncomfortable heat of the room.  
  
“I will bring him to you, Master Baggins,” he says finally, meeting that surprised gaze with his own solemn one. “Even if I must go begging, myself. I will bring him to you.”  
  
“But Thorin—” Master Baggins looks down at their hands. “You can’t summon another king so far from his own lands simply for a hobbit who can’t get over something that happened a year ago. Something he doesn’t even remember—”  
  
“I can, and I will,” Thorin states firmly. “I would do that and more for you, if more was needed or wanted.”  
  
“But just as you couldn’t in good conscience leave Erebor untended to go off on such a mission, surely Lord Elrond—”  
  
“Lord Elrond’s lands have been settled and unchallenged for over a thousand years. He can afford to leave them in the hands of Arwen Undomiel for a few months. For a few  _years_ , if necessary.” Thorin squeezes Master Baggins’ hand again, trying to warm it in his own. It’s slow going. “And even if he decides he cannot, I  _will not_  have you put yourself in danger, in the wild, alone. Or at all.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin says, in a tone that brooks no argument. And Master Baggins sighs.  
  
“If you think that he would come here. . . .”  
  
“I think he can be convinced.”  _Even if I must go myself and beg_.  
  
Master Baggins covers his face with his other hand as if he can hear that thought, laughing bitterly.  
  
“Havens, I’m nothing but trouble. A burden you’ve been saddled with, from the beginning. I’m so sorry for . . . everything. . . .”  
  
“Never a burden. Never trouble. You have saved me and mine more times than I can count. You braved a  _dragon_  for me . . . brought me the Arkenstone, and with it, Erebor. Bilbo Baggins . . . you are a treasure greater than the King’s Jewel itself. And you must never forget that.” Thorin tilts Master Baggins’ face up till their eyes meet again. “I hold you, your life and your health, more dear than anything I can name. Even my honor.”  
  
“Don’t say that, Thorin,” Master Baggins whispers, and Thorin smiles.  
  
“I’m King Under the Mountain. I can say whatever I wish.”  
  
Master Baggins rolls his eyes and laughs. It’s neither rueful nor bitter, this time, and that light that always shines from him, is shining out clearer than it has since Thorin entered his quarters. It is exquisite, this light, rendering Master Baggins even more lovely than nature already has.  
  
Before he can think better of it, Thorin has raised Master Baggins’ hand to his mouth and kissed it. Lingers over it, even as Master Baggins’ eyes widen once more in surprise.  
  
“Th-thorin . . . what—?” he begins, even as Thorin sits up, heart beating wildly in his chest. For long moments they simply stare into each other’s eyes, openly measuring the other. Finally Master Baggins looks away.  
  
“How can you?” he asks, his brow furrowed, and tears running suddenly down his pale cheeks. “You know what was done to me . . . I’m sullied, damaged goods. More damaged than either of us knows, I suspect. How can you feel anything for me but . . . pity and disgust?”  
  
Thorin swallows and pulls Master Baggins’ hand to his face again, first for a kiss, then to his cheek. “You are the strongest person, the purest heart I have ever known. Nothing Azog has done or could ever do to you would sully or damage that. I could never pity your strength, and never be disgusted by the beauty that shines out of you like a light house across the darkest seas.” Searching Master Baggins’ downcast face, Thorin once more turns it up to his own, his thumb brushing away tears.  
  
“Bofur said much the same thing, but neither of you understand,” Master Baggins says, his wet eyes a little angry as they meet Thorin’s. “You’re seeing what you want to see, not what’s really there.”  
  
“It is you, Master Baggins, who is seeing something that isn’t there. Rather, only one facet of who you are, now.” Thorin turns his face to kiss Master Baggins’ hand a third time. “You are  _not_ Azog’s violation of you. You are not the pain of it that lingers even now. You are not the night terrors or the fear or any of it. Those things have affected you, but they have not  _become_  you.”  
  
“You only think that because you fancy yourself in love with me,” Master Baggins says softly, regretfully. Thorin smiles.  
  
“You have it turned ‘round: I only fancy myself in love with you  _because_  I think that. Because I _know_  that.”  
  
“You deserve better than a burglar who let himself get . . . raped by an orc, Thorin! You deserve _better_. Can you not see that?” Master Baggins exclaims.  
  
“What I see is a hobbit that I have loved, for what feels like a life-age, suffering. And I know that I would do anything to ameliorate that suffering.” Thorin’s brow furrows with chagrin for a moment. “And not just because I hope to one day make him mine.”  
  
“Your  _what_? Your  _lover_?” Master Baggins snorts again, derisively. “I can barely stand to be touched!”  
  
“More than my lover,” Thorin says gravely, and Master Baggins gapes for a few seconds before shaking his head. “I would make you my Consort, if you’d let me. I would bind you to me in ways no one could contest or challenge or mistake.”  
  
Master Baggins is still gaping, still shaking his head. “You’ve—you’ve gone mad!”  
  
Thorin’s own smile is wry, now. “A long time ago, yes,” he acknowledges with neither shame nor regret. “And you have . . . given Master Bofur a definite answer, regarding  _his_  suit?”  
  
Groaning, Master Baggins pulls his hand away. “Of course I have. The answer was, as I have said,  _no_. Politely, but firmly  _no_  . . . but he wouldn’t take back the  _watch_ ,” he complains. Thorin’s smile turns briefly nonplussed.  _Of course_ , Bofur  _wouldn’t_  take back a gift he’d given. Especially not one given to Bilbo Baggins.  
  
“Will you send  _me_  away so firmly and politely, Master Baggins?” Thorin asks in simply curious tones, though it feels as if his entire life hinges on the answer to this question. “I have no cunning gift at hand, though I would gift you my entire kingdom, were you to ask for it. Will you refuse me, as well?”  
  
Master Baggins wipes at his eyes. “Do you know what I would have given to hear such pretty words before Azog?” he demands intently, but softly. “I have loved you from . . . the moment I first saw you, it seems. I would have gladly died and worse for nothing more than a smile from you. Even a kind look would have undone me completely. And even then, I wouldn’t have been worthy of your . . . your attention or your love. But I was  _better_  then, than I am now. Innocent and clean. Why couldn’t you have loved me then? Why  _now_ , when I’m . . . when I can’t. . . .” making a frustrated, heart-rending sound, Master Baggins buries his face in his hands once more. “I will never be the person I was. Even if Lord Elrond can make me whole, I will always ever after be  _different_  from the hobbit that dashed out his front door after you all.”  
  
Moving closer to Master Baggins, Thorin hesitantly, oh, so slowly, pulls the hobbit into his arms. He is rather surprised when he gets no resistance, but quite the opposite. Bilbo Baggins sags and sinks into his arms like a world-weary bird finally finding its nest after a long time spent searching.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he says, and keeps saying, while Thorin holds him and rocks him. “I’m so tired and scared all the time, except when I’m with you.”  
  
“Then  _stay_  with me, Bilbo Baggins . . . at least until such time as Lord Elrond heals you,” Thorin adds before Master Baggins can firmly but politely refuse him. “Stay in my kingdom. My mountain. Stay in my rooms, in my bed, in my arms. I’ll look after you.”  
  
Master Baggins sniffs and looks up at Thorin, his face red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—even just a kiss, and I—”  
  
Thorin leans down and pecks Master Baggins’ lips briefly, pulling away before the hobbit can _flinch_  away. Not that it seems, he would. Bestartlement, if nothing else, keeps him still, but for the widening of his lovely eyes.  
  
“You mean a kiss like that?” Thorin asks gently, and Master Baggins nods mutely, still startled, his fingers coming up to brush his lips.  
  
“I will not even ask for that, if you do not wish it. Only come stay with me, and let me look after you.”  
  
Staring wonderingly into Thorin’s eyes, Master Baggins finally nods once, but still muttering: “I don’t understand. . . .”  
  
“You  _needn’t_  understand, my dear hobbit, only trust that I will always look after you, and always love you.” And when Master Baggins doesn’t gainsay this, Thorin’s relief dares to make itself felt. But he has one more question. “And if, after Lord Elrond declares you well—if, after,  _you deem yourself_  well . . . will you consider  _my_  suit?”  
  
Master Baggins sighs. “Damaged goods, Thorin. I’m no one’s idea of an ideal match.”  
  
“But two people have proven you wrong today, have they not?”  
  
“Two dunderheads, yes,” Master Baggins agrees tartly, but smiles a little. For a moment, anyway. “Why, Thorin? Why do you persist in this . . . madness?”  
  
“Because I love you,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down till his forehead touches Master Baggins’, his hair curtaining their faces. “Because I love you and you, by your own admission, return my feelings.”  
  
Master Baggins makes another sound of hurt frustration. “I cannot promise you  _anything_! I can’t even promise I still feel for you the way I felt before Azog touched me! I don’t know how I feel—don’t know  _anything_  anymore!”  
  
Smiling, Thorin closes his eyes and brushes Master Baggins’ nose with his own. “An open heart is all I ask of you, Master Baggins. Can you not promise even  _that_?”  
  
“It’s  _Bilbo_ , for the last time, Thorin. If you’re plighting troth—or may be, down the road—at least call me by my first name.” Bilbo’s words are soft puffs of air on Thorin’s lips. “And if, after everything, you still wish to court me—perhaps we should have Lord Elrond tend to  _your_ madness, as well as mine, while he’s here—I will . . . not dismiss your suit out of hand.”  
  
Pressing his lips ever-so-gently to the ones murmuring against his own, Thorin steals a chaste kiss for several seconds that nonetheless rocks him to his core . . . before Master Baggins—before  _Bilbo_  finally breaks the contact and tucks his head under Thorin’s chin, wrapping himself in Thorin’s embrace once more.  
  
“You always make me feel safe,” Bilbo whispers wonderingly. “No matter where, no matter when . . . you always make me feel safe.”  
  
“On my honor and all that I hold dear and good, Bilbo Baggins, I will  _always_  protect you,” Thorin promises, scooping the hobbit up into his arms and standing. “Always. Will you . . . stay with me from now on?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Thorin lets out a breath he’s been holding for over a year.  
  


*

  
  
It’s a bit of a task getting out of Bilbo’s rooms without putting the hobbit down to more easily open doors, but Thorin manages. Then he’s stalking the relatively short distance from Bilbo’s rooms to his own, ignoring the surprised looks they get from servants and guards, and the knowing look they receive from Dis, who merely smiles and nods when they pass her.  
  
When they get to Thorin’s rooms, the guards—something Thorin had offered Bilbo once upon a time, only to have the offer laughed away—open the doors without so much as a blink, then shut them behind their king and his company.  
  
Seeming as light as fairy dust in his arms, Bilbo shifts a little and looks around them before tucking his head back under Thorin’s chin. Thorin suddenly realizes he’s never had Bilbo in his rooms—has never spent enough time in those rooms to ever invite anyone in, not even Balin.  
  
Dismissing the thought, Thorin carries Bilbo to his bedchamber. Once there, he places the hobbit down gently in his bed—or would, but Bilbo simply holds him tighter, till Thorin gets the idea and sits with him. Bilbo’s weight, though almost negligible, feels right on his lap—as right as it’d felt in his arms. . . .  
  
“Will . . . will you lay with me, for a while?” Bilbo asks after a few quiet minutes, looking up into Thorin’s eyes, his face red and almost ashamed. Thorin’s answer is a nod, and compliance. He lays the hobbit down on what will one day— _some_ day—be  _their_  bed, and spoons up behind him, gathering Bilbo back in his arms when Bilbo rolls onto his side with a sigh and a laugh. “There’ll be so much gossip about us, Thorin, and all over nothing.”  
  
Thorin, feeling as if his world has once more settled onto a necessary axis—even more necessary than the retaking of Erebor had been, in some strong, undeniable way—tightens his arms around Bilbo, who does not protest the treatment. “Sharing my bed with you, in  _any_  capacity, is not ‘nothing,’ Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
“Nothing the King Under the Mountain  _does_  is  _nothing_ , I suppose,” Bilbo yawns, his body relaxing almost imperceptibly in Thorin’s arms. And Thorin, for his part, holds on to his hopeless hope, for as long as it’s his to hold, wondering what changes the future will bring, and knowing that no matter those changes, he will do his best to protect the hobbit resting so trustingly in his arms.  
  
“Are you cold?” he asks quietly, almost awkwardly, his nose pressed to Bilbo’s nape, inhaling the green-grass scent of his hair.  
  
“No,” Bilbo replies just as quietly and awkwardly. He even takes a breath as if he’d say more . . . but eventually lets it out without further comment. So Thorin simply continues to hold Bilbo, and to breathe in. . . .  
  
And there they lay, until Bilbo’s fallen asleep and Balin’s come knocking on the door, looking for his king.


	3. Dawn of a New Age 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in Erebor continues at its own jangling pace. Everyone is still adjusting. Thorin and Bilbo have grown . . . closer. But Bilbo is still dealing with the devastation of Azog’s defilement of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned this, that’d be awesome.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

When Thorin returns from Court some hours later on cat-feet, he’s glad of taking that precaution, for Bilbo is still asleep in his bed, under the heavy blanket Thorin had covered him with before reluctantly attending his duties.  
  
The fire, which he’d also stoked, has burned quite low, and Thorin is in the act of building it up again when Bilbo begins to stir.  
  
“Thorin?” he mumbles, only half awake. By the time his eyes open, Thorin is at his side, smiling and brushing now untidy fringe out of the hobbit’s blinking eyes. “What—what’s going on? Where am I?”  
  
“Safe,” Thorin says softly, his fingertips brushing Bilbo’s soft cheek. “In my bedchamber. Do you remember?”  
  
Bilbo frowns, sitting up a little and looking around with sleepy curiosity. Then he’s blinking at Thorin again. “Where’s all your furniture? Why are your rooms so empty?”  
  
Laughing suddenly, but heartily, Thorin sits on the edge of the bed. Bilbo automatically makes room for him. “I . . . am many things, Master Baggins, but a decorator is not one of them.”  
  
“Obviously. No creature comforts whatsoever . . . just a bed, a chair, and a guarderobe,” Bilbo yawns disapprovingly, covering his mouth. “No tapestries or rugs, even, to hold the heat.” He shivers.  
  
“I suppose I’ve never really noticed the chill . . . but I’ve rebuilt the fire, so the room will be warmer presently,” Thorin murmurs, searching Bilbo’s sleepy gaze before he goes on. “If you wish, since these are now . . .  _your_  rooms, as well, we can move your furniture and things in here.”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes widen—are suddenly markedly less sleepy. He looks almost panicked. “Thorin . . . remember what I said . . . I can’t promise you anything but an open heart. I certainly can’t promise you that I’ll be here permanently.”  
  
Smiling wryly, Thorin caresses Bilbo’s cheek again, pleased when Bilbo not only allows it, but leans into the touch with a soft sigh. “For as long as you’re here, then, your belongings are more than welcome, too. Whatever will make these drafty rooms feel like home. Feel  _safe_ , for you.”  
  
“ _You_  make them feel safe, Thorin.” Bilbo’s somber gaze lightens a bit and he smiles just a little. “But I’m willing to donate some of my furniture to such a worthy cause as cozying up these rooms.”  
  
When Thorin’s smile turns into a grin, Bilbo reaches up with a hesitant hand that shakes, even as it finally comes to rest gently on Thorin’s cheek. Bilbo’s palm is soft and cool, and Thorin resists the urge to kiss it for as long as he can, uncertain what the response will be.  
  
The response to this courtly gesture is a rather fierce blush from Bilbo and a stuttered exhalation.  
  
 _I love you,_  Thorin wishes to say in that moment. But instead he settles for: “Are you hungry?”  
  
Bilbo blinks, as if waking up for a second time, and his hand falls away from Thorin’s face. “I . . . I suppose so. I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he admits, looking down when Thorin’s eyebrows quirk.  
  
“You brought me and my idiot nephews lunch and didn’t spare a thought for yourself?”  
  
“Well, I wasn’t hungry at the time. And then that whole mess with Bofur happened, and then you found me . . . then we came  _here_. . . .” Bilbo looks around again with a sigh. “Sparsely decorated or not, here in this room was the first good sleep I’ve had in longer than I care to remember.”  
  
“But you’ve been sleeping so well for weeks—no night terrors,” Thorin says, frowning again when Bilbo glances away once more. This time, Thorin’s the one to sigh, and shake his head. “You  _haven’t_  been sleeping, have you?”  
  
“I’ve . . . cat-napped. Here and there. Dozed off. But I haven’t tried to get a full night’s sleep in some time. I’m tired of nightmares I can’t remember and screaming myself hoarse before I even wake up. Tired of dragging you and everyone else in the royal wing out of much-needed sleep. Tired of—” Bilbo licks his lips and lets out a soft, weary breath. “Tired of being a burden on you all.”  
  
“Remember what I told you, Bilbo Baggins: you are not now, nor have you ever been a burden.” Thorin leans closer, pressing his lips to Bilbo’s forehead. “I curse the day I opened my mouth and said that. Please know that that was my own jealousy and pride and bloody prejudice speaking, and not my heart.”  
  
“Thorin, you don’t have to keep apologizing for what you said, whether or not you meant it. It was true, in the beginning. And it’s true again, now—” but Bilbo’s soft, self-effacing words get smothered by Thorin’s mouth, covering his own in another kiss. This one is rendered less than chaste when Bilbo moans almost yearningly and Thorin’s own yearning, his own instinct drives him to part his lips and taste that gentle exhalation, and the sweet surprise on the lips it passes through. For several moments, Bilbo’s surprise keeps him still and stiff. Then Thorin’s tongue teases tentatively across his lower lip and Bilbo makes another one of those softly yearning sounds, his own lips parting uncertainly. . . .  
  
It’s that uncertainty that recalls Thorin to himself and their situation. To the memory of his own promise not to bestow even the most chaste of kisses without Bilbo’s say-so. And certainly not before Bilbo’s begun to truly heal.  
  
“I apologize,” Thorin breaks the kiss, but gently, to say. To breathe on Bilbo’s trembling lips, each brush of them a potential kiss in and of itself. Sitting back just enough to look into Bilbo’s eyes—which are still open, wide and startled—he takes a steadying, fortifying breath. “I should not have done that. I don’t know what came over me—”  _yes, I do. I want you, and have done for almost the entirety of our friendship_  “—but I can assure you that I will maintain proper control of myself in the future, and endeavor to make sure you never regret coming to stay here. I will _never_ —”  
  
“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, his hand coming up to cup Thorin’s cheek again. This close—closer than they were even a few moments ago—all Thorin can see once more is Bilbo’s lovely eyes, like clear pools reflecting autumn skies. “It’s alright.”  
  
“It’s  _not_ , Master Baggins. It’s really not—”  
  
“ _Bilbo_. And it  _is_.” The last of this whisper is kissed onto the corner of Thorin’s mouth, where it lingers, until Thorin is pulling Bilbo into his arms, all but crushing the hobbit to him.  
  
“I do not wish to hurt you,” he says in a rush, aware of the irony as he practically squeezes the life out of Bilbo, whose cheek brushes his own. Just that simple contact sends a frisson of scalding  _want_  all through Thorin. In that moment, he wants Bilbo in every way possible, every way he can have him. Wants Bilbo in his bed, at his table, ruling Erebor by his side, and simply sitting with him by the hearth, growing quietly old with him. He wants. . . .  
  
He  _wants_.  
  
Bilbo’s small hands are soothing up and down Thorin’s back and Thorin laughs at the further irony of Bilbo comforting him in this, the hobbit’s time of need.  
  
“You are stronger than you’ll ever know,” Thorin murmurs in Bilbo’s hair as the desire that’d nearly swept him under mellows, turns into a quieter sort of need. A yearning such as the one that’d driven him to kiss Bilbo in the first place. A need to bind the hobbit to him by ties of affection . . . among other things. “I admire that strength, and I adore you. And I will wait forever, if need be, to have you by my side.”  
  
“Don’t say that, Thorin . . . please don’t.” Bilbo begins to pull out of Thorin’s arms and Thorin, after a moment of complete emotional refusal, lets go. Bilbo won’t meet his eyes, but his fingers are brushing his lips thoughtfully. “The k-kiss was lovely. It really was. It made my toes tingle and my heart beat faster, like a bird trying to fly out of my rib cage. I’ve never felt anything like that before  _Never_. I wouldn’t mind doing it again, some time.” Now Bilbo’s eyes meet Thorin’s candidly. “But a kiss is simply a kiss. I don’t know what would happen if we tried to—I mean if you—” sighing Bilbo glares down at his hands, blushing furiously. “Maybe in time, we could. Maybe because . . . it’s  _you_ , it wouldn’t scare me so much. Wouldn’t make me want to scream and weep and . . .  _vomit_ —I was nearly ill when Bofur kissed me good-bye, earlier,” he admits, his voice low with shame and held back tears. “Just a simple kiss right here—” Bilbo brushes the corner of his mouth, approximately where he’d kissed Thorin just a minute ago. “Just that and I practically threw him out of my rooms, Thorin. I couldn’t bear his touch or his gaze any longer. And I knew that I’d made the right decision. As kind and honorable as he is, and as much as I trust him, I could never be his lover. Or anything other than his steadfast friend. And that’s . . . alright. But if the same thing were to happen with you—if I were to ever experience that same revulsion at your touch . . . it would destroy me.”  
  
A few tears drip down Bilbo’s nose to land on his hands, and he quickly wipes his cheeks, sniffing and muttering about weepy, ridiculous hobbits.  
  
Thorin cups Bilbo’s face in his hand and tilts it up. Gazes steadily into tear-shiny eyes that he dreams of more nights than he doesn’t. “I’ve already dispatched seven couriers with seven copies of the same message, seven different ways to Imladris. Lord Elrond  _will_  come and he  _will_ heal you. And if, at that time, you discover that my touch . . . repels you, then I will withdraw my suit. But I will always look after you.  _Always_. Even if you decide after all that Master Bofur is who you want—and I’m certain that were a hundred years to pass, he would still welcome you with open arms—I will always look after you and protect you,” he promises, even though his entire being rails against even the thought of Bilbo in another person’s arms.  
  
Bilbo, meanwhile, smiles his sweet, weary smile and brushes Thorin’s hair over his shoulder.  
  
“Thank you . . . and . . . if not you, my lord, then  _no one_ ,” he says rather tenderly. And with that he leans in to kiss Thorin’s lips briefly, but lingering long enough that Thorin’s heretofore hopeless hope suddenly doesn’t feel quite so hopeless, after all.  
  


*

  
  
They take their late supper—nearing midnight, thanks to Court and all the work that comes as a result—in Thorin’s rooms, and eat in a comfortable silence that is nonetheless charged in a way that none of their other shared meals have been.  
  
When at last they do speak, it is of Court and the petitions Thorin finds himself dealing with on a daily, hourly basis. Bilbo’s both amused and fascinated by the running of Erebor, and his tentative, but practical suggestions for several cases are quite helpful to Thorin, who stops, mid-bite, sometimes, to write down in his blocky characters the things Bilbo says, for in these days, even at table, he is not without pen and parchment.  
  
After supper, when the dishes have been cleared away, Bilbo returns to his old rooms to change into his nightgown and bring a fresh change of clothes back to Thorin’s room with him. Thorin, in the meantime, who hasn’t worn sleep clothes since he was younger than Kili, sorts through his most worn shirts and breeches for something he wouldn’t mind sleeping in.  
  
By the time Bilbo returns, clad in the aforementioned nightgown and carrying the next day’s clothes, Thorin looks as if he’s dressed to go sparring in a grey, woolen tunic and patched brown leather breeches. But he tries his best to look as if he’s ready to go to sleep—something his body has assured him he’s  _not at all_  ready to do with the return of an undressed Bilbo Baggins—and smiles nervously.  
  
“After you,” he says gruffly, turning down the sheets and blanket. Wide-eyed and swallowing just as nervously, Bilbo drops his folded clothes in the room’s lone chair and scampers quickly into bed, edging toward the far side. Far, that is, from Thorin, and from the fire.  
  
Thorin tsks. “I’ll take that side, and you can sleep nearer the fire.”  
  
“I’ll not drive you to the cold side of the bed on my first night in it!” Bilbo protests, but Thorin has already marched to the “cold” side, thrown back the covers, and is making himself comfortable without ceremony. Bilbo quickly gives him room, moving more toward the fire—practically toward the other edge of the bed. Thorin glances at him and sighs.  
  
“You needn’t fear I’ll touch you in the night, Bilbo,” he says softly, and Bilbo blinks, still clutching the covers to himself. Then, as if realizing the sight he must present, he lowers his hands and tries to smile.  
  
“I don’t fear that, Thorin. I simply wanted to give you room to get comfortable. I don’t want you to be farther from the fire than necessary. It’s freezing in here!” Bilbo’s almost smile becomes a real one and he blushes. “And I was hoping that we might . . . sleep as we did this afternoon . . . your arms around me. If that’s—if that’s alright with you.”  
  
Thorin’s already moved toward the center of the bed and is pulling Bilbo into his arms and down to the bed. The hobbit is stiff in his arms for a moment, but for a moment only, immediately relaxing with a little sigh. He turns in Thorin’s arms, resting his face and one curled hand on Thorin’s chest. Thorin’s arms come up around Bilbo’s shoulders and to rest on Bilbo’s curled hand, respectively.  
  
They lay in silence for some time, listening to the fire, Bilbo’s breathing evening out, Thorin’s thoughts wandering free of his control. He lets himself be lulled by the flicker of firelight off the ceiling, until his own eyes start to grow heavy at last.  
  
“Sleep well, Master Baggins,” he finally murmurs, kissing Bilbo’s hair and hugging the hobbit closer to him. “Sleep well, and if you must dream, may they be sweet ones.”  
  
His reply is a soft snort. Bilbo is fast asleep.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin’s own dreams are, predictably, something rather less than sweet.  
  
At what his own clock—neither miniature nor wrist-mounted—dourly tells him, by its chiming from the office of his quarters, is five in the morning, likely just before sun-up, Thorin gives up sleep as a bad job. Disengages from Bilbo Baggins—behind whom he’s pressed and around whom he’s curled possessively—and sits up, scrubbing his face and glaring moodily into his lap.  
  
Normally, he’d simply take care of this particular problem before budging from bed, but he dares not with Bilbo sleeping so near. Should Thorin make a sound that wakes the hobbit during such an endeavor . . . who knows how he would react. How that might hinder his budding trust and increasing comfort with being touched. . . .  
  
As it is, Thorin realizes how lucky he is that Bilbo hadn’t woken first, to discover Thorin’s hardness pressed so insistently against his backside. And even luckier, still, that he hadn’t woken already attempting to make love to the small body in his arms.  
  
Shaking his head, Thorin gets up carefully, gingerly. Bilbo slumbers on, hugging the edge of the bed closest to the dying fire.  
  
Thorin automatically builds it up again before making his way out to his office, thence to wank in guilty silence, like a boy not out of his first beard.  
  


*

  
  
In the end, after eating his half of the breakfast Cook sends up—Bilbo was certainly right about the speed at which gossip travels: Cook had known to send enough food for two this morning—Thorin decides not to wake Bilbo to say his good-byes. Bilbo needs sleep more than he needs pleasantries.  
  
So he dresses in his robe and crown, as usual, and goes to his bedchamber to check the fire one last time, brush the fringe off of Bilbo’s forehead where he lays a gentle kiss, and finally, finally, takes his reluctant leave.  
  


*

  
  
“So . . . shall I prepare a marriage contract? Or will you simply make him your concubine?”  
  
Thorin, who’d been staring off into space during the morning meeting, finds that he must’ve been doing so again, and for some time, for his advisors, and Fili and Kili are all getting up to leave. All except for himself and Balin seem set on some business or other.  
  
Clearing his throat and glaring at his second, Thorin stands up, too, stifling a yawn. “Your sense of humor becomes less appropriate with advancing age.”  
  
Balin’s white brows inch up and he stands with a small grunt. “Who’s being funny? I meant what I asked.”  
  
Thorin rolls his eyes, though he knows that if he had his way, his answer to Balin’s first question would’ve been a proud  _yes_. “It’s not like that, Balin.”  
  
“Oh? You  _haven’t_  been pining over the boy since—why, since even before he brought you the Arkenstone?”  
  
Blushing, Thorin strides out of the meeting room, Balin on his heels. “I’m telling you, Balin . . . this is not what you think. It’s . . . complicated. And private.”  
  
Balin sighs. “Of course it is. Matters of the heart always are, laddie. But don’t forget that whatever else may stand in your way, he loves you, and has since the beginning. He was waiting only for his feelings to be returned.” He claps Thorin’s shoulder and Thorin sighs, grimacing, remembering Bilbo asking why he, Thorin, couldn’t have loved him before Azog had touched him . . . remembers Bilbo saying he would have died or worse for even a kind look.  
  
 _And it was much worse, for even less than a kind look, it turns out,_  Thorin thinks guiltily.  
  
“However, things change. With time and circumstance, Balin. You know that, better than most.” Shaking his head, Thorin pauses and turns to look at Balin, who’s watching him with his usual shrewd kindness. “Things have changed, my friend.”  
  
“True,” Balin agrees, a look of melancholy settling over his features for a few moments before clearing into a knowing smile. “But what  _hasn’t_  changed is . . . that boy faced down a  _dragon_  for you. Not for the dwarven people. Not for the fellowship, even. For  _you_. I daresay he’d look the Dark Lord himself in the eye for  _you_ , Thorin. And  _that_  kind of love does not languish or wither. It only grows and strengthens.”  
  
How badly Thorin wishes to believe that. . . .  
  
“Believe it, Thorin,” Balin says, echoing Thorin’s thoughts so closely, Thorin starts, staring at his second as if—well, as if he’s grown a second head. Balin winks and claps Thorin’s shoulder once more, soundly. “Well. At any rate, congratulations, my king. I wish you both every joy. Let me know when you’re ready for that contract, eh?” He bows and takes himself off on his morning rounds, leaving a thoughtful king to stare after him.  
  


*

  
  
Court seems to drag on that morning, and Thorin is almost unbearably bored of it by mid-morning. By noon, he’s ready to think up an excuse—any excuse—to leave. To go back to his rooms, remove his robe and crown, and perhaps crawl back into bed with his hobbit.  
  
Thorin’s literally considering throwing out the current case—a simple land dispute, with relatively civil parties involved, no screaming, and thankfully no running commentary from his yawning, fidgeting nephews—when a commotion from the back of the crowd of petitioners startles him out of his funk and sees him half-rising from his throne, grinning as his heart beats faster.  
  
Sooner, rather than later, Bilbo Baggins has made his way to the front of the crowd carrying yet another huge silver tray and smiling like the sun rising under the Mountain.  
  
This time, there’s lunch for  _four_.  
  


*

  
  
“Will you be at the library, this evening, Master Baggins?”  
  
Bilbo turns, in the act of going down the steps leading from the throne, the much-lightened lunch tray balanced on one hand. “I suppose I will. That Khuzdul won’t learn itself, after all.”  
  
Thorin smiles and crosses the distance between them, ignoring the looks Fili and Kili are no doubt sharing—and the gloating they’re probably engaging in at having won their silly bets with . . . whomever—and when he can gaze down into Bilbo’s eyes, he resists the urge to reach out and caress his soft cheek, contenting himself with taking Bilbo’s free hand. “Well . . . if you wouldn’t mind taking a break from your studies . . . tonight is a full moon, and it’s . . . particularly large from the main battlements. If you like, I could show you.”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes widen and he smiles bemusedly. “Y-yes. That’d be—lovely, Thor—my lord.” He blushes, glancing at the guards lining the throne room, and at a doubtless attentive Fili and Kili. “What time should I be ready?”  
  
“I mean to be done with Court and the rigmarole that attends it by no later than six o’clock. I thought we might eat supper in my rooms—at a reasonable hour, for once—then take that walk,” Thorin says quietly, squeezing Bilbo’s hand. The hobbit nods once, still blushing.  
  
“Six o’clock, it is. I . . . shall see you then.” Bilbo nods, starting to turn away again, the contents of the tray jangling ever so slightly, now. But Thorin stops him with another squeeze of his hand and bows over said hand, pulling it to his mouth for a soft kiss that lingers in a way that will likely spread the rumors about them even faster.  
  
Thorin couldn’t care less, all of a sudden—smiles on Bilbo’s fingers as the hobbit turns a fierce, yet fetching crimson.  
  
Then he watches Bilbo go until he slips out the door one of the guards opens for him, with a final look back and small wave. Thorin waves back, and catches himself sighing.  
  
A moment later he can sense Fili or Kili—or both—opening their mouths to say something. He holds up a hand.  
  
“I’m in no mood,” he says tersely, turning to climb back up the shallow steps to his throne. He sits with another sigh, this one brooding and impatient.  
  
Fili and Kili, meanwhile, huff righteously. “But we haven’t even said anything, Uncle,” Kili complains.  
  
“ _I_  meant only to compliment the fine meal Master Baggins brought,” Fili loftily claims. Thorin rolls his eyes and resolves to ignore both nephews for the rest of the session.  
  
Then the guard is ushering back in the plaintiff and defendant and the rest of the petitioners. Thorin resigns himself to the next six hours of being the king.  
  


*

  
  
“The moon never seemed so bright and close in the Shire,” Bilbo says, gazing up at the night sky and the looming satellite therein as one entranced.  
  
Thorin gazes at Bilbo in much the same way.  
  
“It’s never been so . . .  _beautiful_ ,” Bilbo decides, and Thorin is quick to agree, though he hasn’t eyes for anything, be it earth-bound or satellite, that isn’t the hobbit on his arm.  
  
Finally, Bilbo looks down from the moon and catches Thorin staring. He rolls his eyes.  
  
“You’re very silly, for a king, you know? Making calf-eyes at me all the time.”  
  
Thorin chuckles, but doesn’t deny either statement. “And you’re very serious, for a hobbit.”  
  
“I’ll have you know hobbits can be a very sober and serious lot, when the circumstances warrant it.” Bilbo sniffs rather haughtily, but leans on Thorin’s arm with a mischievous smile. “Not that they often do. We  _do_  like our merriment and celebrations, our food and drink.”  
  
“As do dwarves,” Thorin chuckles again, leading Bilbo past yet another sentry, who snaps to attention when they pass. “Our people have much in common.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
They pass a few minutes in the comfortable, yet charged silence that seems to fall between them of late, strolling up and down the battlements. Thorin briefly remembers how it felt to duck behind them as dragon-fire heated and softened iron, and killed many of the sentries who’d been on guard that fateful day . . . nearly killed Balin and himself. . . .  
  
But he puts that out of his mind. He refuses to taint his time with Bilbo, with memories of the worst day in the lives of so many. With memories of Smaug, the Terrible, now safely hastened off to whatever afterlife there is for beasts that do such great evil.  
  
The beast that none other than the hobbit on his arm had faced.  _For Thorin_ , if Balin’s perception is to be believed.  
  
And Thorin wants, more than anything to believe. To believe that Bilbo not only loves him back, but loves him beyond all rational meaning of the word . . . the way Thorin loves him.  
  
Thinking back to the previous day—has it only been one day, plus a little more, since he’d resolved, not for the first time, to never burden  _Master Baggins_  with his feelings and attraction? Since he’d forbidden even his nephews to talk about the possibility of those feelings being returned?—he can only marvel at all that has happened since . . . and worry that so much more _needs_  to happen before. . . .  
  
 _Before he’s mine, completely and forever_ , Thorin thinks, that yearning almost sweeping him out to sea again.  _If, by some miracle, my missive convinces an elvish lord to leave his kingdom to come to a stronghold of dwarves, to heal a hobbit he barely knows of wounds that are invisible, and all the more deep for that, there’s still the rather large matter of how long that healing will take. . . ._  
  
Thorin glances at Bilbo, who’s gazing up at the moon once more, a look of breathless wonder on his lovely face. When he turns to Thorin, he’s smiling so brightly, it must surely shame the moon to be in such close proximity to a beauty that so easily outshines it.  
  
 _But I suppose that does not matter . . . I’d wait forever for him, if necessary. He is my match. My rising sun, my perfect star. What matter the wait, when the reward is the greatest treasure I could possibly hold?_  Thorin reaches out to brush fringe out of Bilbo’s face, his fingers gliding down smooth skin to Bilbo’s rosy cheek.  
  
“What?” Bilbo asks, leaning into the touch, that smile brightening even more. Thorin’s breath catches and he cups Bilbo’s face in his hands.  
  
“You are . . . so lovely that I ache whenever I look at you,” he murmurs, and Bilbo turns that fierce crimson again, so deep it’s visible even at night. Palpable even to Thorin’s rough, chilled fingertips. “How easily, how prettily a blush heats your cheek.”  
  
“Silly.” Bilbo sighs, closing his eyes. “I wish. . . .” he adds softly, and Thorin leans closer.  
  
“What is it you wish?”  _If it is in my power to give to you, I will._  
  
“I wish . . . that this night would never end. That the moon would always be this bright and . . . that we’d always be this safe and happy.”  
  
Thorin’s smile turns a bit wry. Safety, he can provide effortlessly. Happiness . . . is a bit harder. But he promises himself and Bilbo that he will dedicate himself to providing that, too. The moon would have to take care of itself. “ _Are_  you happy, right now, Master Baggins?”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes open, as solemnly joyful as Thorin’s ever seen them. “Indescribably.”  
  
“It is well, then.” Thorin’s thumbs stoke Bilbo’s cheeks and he leans even closer to gently kiss Bilbo’s eyelids, the tip of his nose, and lastly his lips. Lips that part under his own almost instantly, though rather shyly.  
  
Bilbo’s hands settle hesitantly on Thorin’s chest, one curling over his heart, and reluctantly Thorin brings the kiss to a discreet end seconds later—despite the very strong urge to plunder Bilbo’s mouth like the treasure that it is—before his tongue can do more than tease the tip of Bilbo’s. They part with a low groan from Thorin and a soft moan from Bilbo, who shivers.  
  
“Y-you didn’t have to stop,” he breathes, as shyly as he’d accepted Thorin’s kiss. Thorin smiles and nuzzles Bilbo’s still-flushed cheek.  
  
“I . . . think it was wise that I did.” He stares down into Bilbo’s wide, expectant eyes. “There’ll be time for more later . . . as you . . . get better.”  
  
Bilbo moans again, but doesn’t gainsay Thorin, merely tucks his head under Thorin’s chin with another small shiver. Thorin holds him tight.  
  
“What if I never get better than this?” Bilbo asks quietly, his voice muffled in Thorin’s chest. “What if I never get better than a kiss, here and there? Even with Lord Elrond’s help?”  
  
“You will. And even if you don’t,” Thorin murmurs in Bilbo’s hair. “Even if you don’t, I will always love you. Never will I stray, or seek out another.”  
  
After a few minutes, Bilbo begins to shiver in earnest, and Thorin starts them walking again, his arm around the hobbit’s shoulders.  
  
“Even the stars, here, are different, it seems,” Bilbo says wonderingly, pointing up at a constellation. Thorin looks up and names it—and several others that Bilbo picks out, giving a bit of history about each. But by then, Bilbo’s teeth are chattering, and Thorin is starting to feel the nip in the air, as well.  
  
“Come,” he says, finally, taking Bilbo’s hand and linking their fingers before turning them away from the moon and stars, and toward hearth and bed. “They’ll be here tomorrow night, as well, my love. For now, you need a roaring fire and a turned-down bed.”  
  
Bilbo shivers once, hard, and looks up at Thorin, his smile fond and tender. “And I daresay you need the same, my lord.”  
  
 _The only thing I need is you._  “Then I’ll put us both to bed—and for once before midnight.”  
  
“The librarians will have no one to disapprove of, tonight, it looks like,” Bilbo says with mock-sadness as Thorin leads him back under the Mountain. The sentries and guards they pass all come to attention.  
  
“There’ll be plenty of nights to make them huff and disapprove when the moon isn’t as close, nor the stars so bright.”  
  
“Agreed. And I’m . . . really glad you brought me out to see them. I haven’t gone outside in some months and . . . well, this was certainly a beautiful evening on which to do so.” Bilbo swings their hands blithely, laughing when Thorin twirls him once, gracefully, out of nowhere, as if they were dancing. The twirl ends with him in Thorin’s arms and gazing up into Thorin’s eyes for some time. . . .  
  
That night, once Bilbo’s shyness about getting into bed with Thorin—and Thorin’s gruff matter-of-factness about getting into bed with Bilbo—wears off, Thorin begins telling Bilbo more of the histories behind the constellations they’d spotted. And Bilbo, head pillowed on his arms and arms pillowed on Thorin’s chest, listens with wide-eyed attentiveness until even a story-hungry hobbit begins to blink and drowse from the warmth of the fire, the length of the day, and the slow, steady heartbeat beneath him.  
  
Well after Bilbo’s breathing has evened out, Thorin still stares into the fire, one hand resting on Bilbo’s back, the other tucked behind his own head.  
  
“One day . . . one night at a time,” he tells himself with a soft sigh. “That’s all there is to it.”  
  
And he stares into the fire and strokes Bilbo’s back until he, too, drops off into sleep.


	4. Dawn of a New Age 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months have passed in a seeming blink. Thorin and Bilbo are still growing closer, slowly, in spite of Azog’s defilement of Bilbo. Thorin is taking extra care and Bilbo is growing impatient with Thorin and himself. Things have reached a stand-still . . . or have they? The phrase “calm before the storm” also comes to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Professor would probably be scandalized at what I’m doing with his beloved hobbit. . . .  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“More, Thorin . . .  _more_. . . .”  
  
“Are you certain, my love?”  
  
Bilbo gasps as Thorin’s kisses wend their way south of his ear, and don’t pause until they reach the collar of Bilbo’s nightgown, where linger Thorin’s finger and thumb, brushing buttons and waiting for Bilbo’s say-so to continue.  
  
Small hands flutter like excited birds about Thorin’s shoulders before settling on them lightly. “I-I’m certain of it . . . I’m ready for m-more.”  
  
Thorin sits up just enough to look into Bilbo’s nervous—but anticipatory—eyes. The hobbit swallows anxiously and smiles, one hand coming up to cup Thorin’s face so gently.  
  
“I’m really not much to look at . . . but if you wish to . . . if you wish to see me and to t-touch me. . . .” that fierce crimson flush spreads like wildfire acoss Bilbo’s already rosy face, and Thorin smiles a little, too. Leans down to steal a kiss that’s as sweet as it is wanton. A kiss that, in spite of everything, still tastes of Bilbo’s innocence. And it is that simple sweetness that stays Thorin’s hand at this point, and has for several nights running, and never mind Bilbo’s pleas for  _more, Thorin_.  
  
In Thorin’s palm rests something so pure and lovely, something he’d thought Azog had utterly destroyed that awful night. That something shines brighter than the sun—lights up Bilbo’s face and eyes in these moments, when Thorin wants nothing more than to give in to his love’s innocent yearning and begin the inconsequential, yet momentous unbuttoning of six tiny, fussy little buttons . . . baring Bilbo’s pale, perfect skin to the firelight and to worshipful kisses.  
  
Thorin buries his face in the hollow between Bilbo’s neck and shoulder and sighs, quickly inhaling and letting Bilbo’s gentle scent calm him. Bilbo’s other hand leaves Thorin’s shoulder and drifts to his hair, carding it slowly.  
  
“It’s . . . alright . . . if you  _don’t_  want to look at me. I understand if you can’t bring yourself to—” he begins kindly, so evenly that it almost completely hides the hurt and disappointment in his voice. But Thorin, attuned as he is to his hobbit, hears it and sits up to kiss Bilbo’s wavering smile.  
  
“You have no idea, Bilbo Baggins, how much I desire to look upon you,” he breathes, nuzzling Bilbo’s cheek and jaw, neck and throat. “I would see you clothed in nothing but my kisses.”  
  
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo sighs shakily, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they’re wet and vulnerable. “You don’t have to say that if it’s not true. If you fear that s-seeing me unclothed will put you in mind of what happened—”  
  
“That is not what I fear, Bilbo. What I fear,” Thorin begins hesitantly, not wanting to scare Bilbo, but not wanting to see him hurting, either. “What I fear is that we’re taking this far too quickly. I fear setting you back because of my haste and lust. I  _fear_  . . . that I am growing drunk on you, on your kisses and your scent and the softness of your skin . . . and that as one drunk, I am too addled to see clearly the repercussions of my actions.”  
  
Once more Thorin’s fingers brush the collar of Bilbo’s nightgown, lingering at the first button.  
  
“I would not see you hurt any further, but thriving and happy. I think  _more_  must wait on another day.” Thorin’s fingers move reluctantly away from collar, toward sleeve, and they both sigh, Bilbo’s head dropping to his pillow as he blinks up at the ceiling. Thorin, leaning over the hobbit, finally sits back and lays down, one hand resting on his sternum.  
  
The other seeks out Bilbo’s smaller one and takes it, squeezing it.  
  
Bilbo sighs again and squeezes back.  
  
After a few minutes of frustrated, regretful silence, Thorin sits up, pulling Bilbo’s hand to his mouth for a kiss.  
  
“I must prepare for the day,” he says gruffly, but it’s as much apology as it is statement of fact. As he sits up then stands up, he can feel Bilbo’s gaze on him, as tangible as moonlight. Can sense that the hobbit has something to say . . . but when Bilbo doesn’t speak, Thorin makes his way to the fireplace to build up the fire before gathering his clothes and going to his office to change—and quickly, and rather unsatisfyingly, take care of the erection that, even in his old, worn tunic, is something Bilbo couldn’t help but notice—and try to get his mind into the proper space for the morning meeting, and thence governing.  
  
From previous experience, he knows it won’t be easy, knows that he won’t quite be able to winnow his mind away from—  
  
He starts, dropping the poker to the hearthstones as suddenly, arms slide around his waist, and a smaller body presses itself against his back—molds itself to Thorin’s own, one hand settling at waist, the other settling higher up, above Thorin’s heart.  
  
“I wish you would touch me,” Bilbo murmurs softly into Thorin’s tunic, his breath warm and stirring even through the thick woolen fabric. “Or let me touch  _you_.”  
  
And Bilbo’s hand, shaking enough that Thorin can feel it, slides slowly down Thorin’s abdomen, and lower still, hesitating just above the bulge in tunic and trews. And during this moment of hesitation, Thorin catches Bilbo’s hand and pulls it up his chest . . . or he would have, if his own hesitation and overwhelming  _desire_  hadn’t flooded him and floored him, leaving him as one helpless when Bilbo’s timorous fingers encounter his hardened flesh.  
  
Thorin sucks in a breath, his eyes fluttering shut as Bilbo’s fingers trace the length of him through the layers of his sleep clothes. The hand over Thorin’s heart grasps a handful of tunic and pulls it up until there’s one less layer between Bilbo’s curious fingers and Thorin’s hardness. Then, with a quick breath, Bilbo’s grasping Thorin’s erection boldly, not venturing beneath the trews to do so— _not yet,_  Thorin thinks, opening his eyes and looking down himself at Bilbo’s small, pale hand on the dark, distended front of his trews. The sight is unexpectedly affecting, drawing a groan from Thorin and a sudden surge in his blood. He closes his eyes again, trying to control his breathing. Control him _self_.  
  
“Your heart races,” Bilbo murmurs, squeezing and stroking alternately, his grip strong, but his movements uncertain. His other hand still clutches fabric lightly over Thorin’s chest, which is rising and falling quickly and deeply.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin chokes out, meaning to put a stop to this, to finally remove Bilbo’s hand. But when his fingers brush Bilbo’s hand, Bilbo presses his face to Thorin’s back and presses his body, somehow, closer.  
  
“Please,” he whispers, and: “Let me do this for you . . . for us  _both_.”  
  
Then without waiting for Thorin’s answer, those clever, burglar’s fingers are quickly undoing the laces to Thorin’s trews. And Thorin—  
  
Thorin is shivering as he’s bared to the cool air for the few moments it takes until Bilbo’s hand closes around him. Gasping, Thorin’s eyes fly open and he finds himself looking down again. At himself, brick-red and leaking at the tip, held in Bilbo’s loose, still uncertain grasp. His own hands, all but useless in their shock, come up to brace himself on the mantle as he leans forward a little, thrusting into Bilbo’s grasp. He slides through Bilbo’s fist and groans again, pulling back then pumping his hips forward again harder as Bilbo’s hand tightens slightly.  
  
In the otherwise silent room, Thorin’s heavy breathing sounds like a bellows, and Bilbo’s softer but no slower breath is a higher counterpoint.  
  
“T-tell me what you like,” Bilbo ventures after a few minutes during which Thorin’s grown harder than he’s ever been in his life, it seems. It’s all he can do not turn and take the hobbit in his arms and—  
  
“This,” Thorin replies through clenched teeth, even as Bilbo’s once more curious fingers tighten around him, and his thumb glances across the wet tip of Thorin’s prick. Thorin cries out, squeezing his eyes shut once more, his breath coming ever faster, his arms and legs shaking as his body races toward completion. “Durin’s beard—just  _this_.”  
  
And shortly,  _just this_ —Bilbo’s tight little grip and clever fingers—is enough to bring Thorin off with a loud, pained, bitten-lipped groan. Spends himself rather spectacularly on the stones of the hearth even as he continues to push himself in and pull out of Bilbo’s grip. Which he does until the sensation is simply too much, even for his spent, softening flesh.  
  
One hand leaving the mantle, Thorin straightens, trusting his weight to legs that are only slightly wobbly. He covers the hand settled over his heart and squeezes.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asks, pulling Bilbo’s hand to his lips for a kiss that lingers out of equal parts satiation and worry. But he can feel Bilbo’s smile on his back, and the hand on his prick squeezes once, Bilbo’s thumb rubbing teasingly across the wet tip, and drawing another groan from Thorin . . . then Bilbo’s letting him go, that clever, curious, quite surprising hand sliding up to Thorin’s abdomen, where it rests for the moment.  
  
“I was about to ask you the same,” Bilbo says, half-jokingly, and Thorin turns in Bilbo’s embrace, careful not to dislodge or upset Bilbo’s arms, till he’s looking down into anxious, hopeful eyes.  
  
“My love,” he starts, leaning down till their foreheads are touching. “That was . . . more than I could have ever hoped for, and sooner than I could have ever hoped for it.” A pause. “I’ve never been brought off at my own hearth and practically into the fireplace. Clearly I’ve been missing out.”  
  
Bilbo snorts and giggles, sounding more relieved than anything. “I . . . I’ve never done that before. The hearth or the . . . touching someone else in  _that_  way.” This close, Thorin can only barely see Bilbo’s eyes, the sincere, intent shine of them.  
  
“You . . . have  _never_  . . . taken a lover? Not even in back in Hobbiton?” Thorin asks, and even as he asks, knows it’s true. Of course, it’s true. “Never  _once_  has anyone . . . pleasured you the way you just did me?”  _No one ever touched you in love, before Azog . . . defiled you . . . oh, my poor, lovely hobbit. . . ._  
  
Bilbo shakes his head, laughing a little. “Never. I suppose I didn’t really  _want_  anyone to. I couldn’t imagine what all the fuss was about. I thought it sounded, well, messy and impractical. Silly.” Snorting again, Bilbo leans back and looks into Thorin’s eyes, smiling. “Clearly I was missing out.”  
  
Thorin brushes Bilbo’s soft cheek with fingers that still tingle from his climax then leans in for a kiss that’s gentle and undemanding. His other hand comes to the small of Bilbo’s back and pulls the hobbit tight against him. Only to get the surprise of his life when his Bilbo shifts about until he’s rubbing, half hard and slightly erect, against Thorin’s thigh.  
  
Even after hours spent kissing and locked in each other’s embrace, Bilbo has never once, been hard. Not that Thorin had dared, with his own willful hardness to control and conceal, touch the hobbit below the waist or above the knees. But going only on the evidence of his eyes . . . Bilbo Baggins had never been stimulated to the point of hardness due to Thorin’s ministrations.  
  
Until now.  
  
Genuinely surprised, Thorin breaks the kiss to gaze at Bilbo, who’s blushing that deep crimson, and staring intently at Thorin’s beard.  
  
“I—this didn’t happen to me all that often, even before . . . what happened. Back in Hobbiton, I almost never got hard, and even less often than that did I wank. I just . . . never saw the point of it all. Until the night I met you, and. . . .” Another giggle, this one self-effacing and slightly scared. But even so, Bilbo meets Thorin’s eyes. “I never wanted anyone the way I wanted you from the moment I first saw you. All I could think about was how your arms would feel around me, and your body against mine, and . . . I wanted you to make love to me so desperately, it was like fire in my blood. And then . . . Azog . . . and . . . I thought that I’d never be able to get hard again. I thought I’d never  _want_  to. Just the thought of being touched in that way scared me so much—I can’t even describe the fear and revulsion that went through me, Thorin. That still goes through me, sometimes.  
  
“But over the past weeks . . . that’s been changing. Slowly, I know, and I would hasten things along, if I knew how.” Another laugh, less scared and more frustrated. The eyes that meet Thorin’s are solemn and brave. Determined. “Whenever you touch me, I want to be hard. I want to feel that . . . wanton desire for you take me over as it did back in Hobbiton. I want to be able to give myself to you at last, and  _enjoy_  it.”  
  
Thorin’s slides his hand between them, fingers questing for that slight hardness, smiling when he brushes warm flesh through the thin nightgown, and Bilbo gasps, high and startled in his throat. His eyes are wide and surprised . . . so lovely, that Thorin has to kiss him. And kiss him. And kiss him.  
  
“When, at last, you give yourself to me,” Thorin murmurs, fingers stroking Bilbo’s length till the hobbit is more fully erect, harder, and breathing that way as he fidgets in Thorin’s arms. Till there’s a warm wet-spot developing on the front of that pristine white gown and Bilbo’s eyes are fluttering shut, his brows furrowed in concentration. “When you give yourself to me, you  _will_ enjoy it, Master Baggins. This I promise you.”  
  
Bilbo swallows and nods once, his eyes fluttering open. “I’m enjoying th-this. N-now.”  
  
“You must never be afraid to tell me if you  _stop_  enjoying it. No matter how far we go, or how wrapped up in you I am, I will never push you for what you don’t want or aren’t ready for.” Thorin’s own brow furrows as he stares down into Bilbo’s wide eyes. “Am I doing something you don’t want?”  
  
Bilbo licks his lips and shakes his head  _no_.  
  
“And . . . how far do you wish me to go?” Thorin leans in till his lips brush Bilbo’s. “Do you wish me simply touch you like this, until you wish to stop? Or shall I . . . do you wish for me to make you come?”  
  
Bilbo shivers, his hands coming up to Thorin’s shoulders where he holds on as if for dear life. “I—I don’t know. Wh-what do  _you_  want?”  
  
“I want only to please you,” Thorin says lowly, and Bilbo shivers again.  
  
“You already are,” he says simply, and Thorin smiles, kissing the tip of Bilbo’s nose then his lips.  
  
“Then tell me when you wish for me to stop.”  
  
Nodding, Bilbo’s eyes close again, and his hands tighten on Thorin’s shoulders. His lower lip is bitten between his teeth, his breath rushing in and out of slightly flared nostrils. Thorin’s fingers continue their delightful task until Bilbo’s breathing is panting and he’s buried his face in Thorin’s tunic. His shoulders shake as does his whole body, and Thorin’s fingers falter.  
  
“Shall I stop, Master Baggins?” he asks gently, and Bilbo shivers hard and looks up at him, his face surprisingly free of tears and hazy with ardor.  
  
“P-please don’t,” he stammers, and Thorin almost reluctantly renews his fondling to a long, drawn-out moan and Bilbo’s eyes rolling back. Thorin is tempted, for a moment, to pull the nightgown up and feel Bilbo’s heat and hardness first-hand . . . but before he can even dismiss the idea—Bilbo seems to get nervous about Thorin seeing him naked or touching his bare skin, despite his earlier bravado—Bilbo’s clutching at Thorin’s shoulders tightly, his shaking, shuddering body suddenly still. His face takes on a look of perfect surprise, his lovely lips forming a small “O” as the wet-spot under Thorin’s hand begins to spread. . . .  
  
Then Bilbo is sagging against Thorin, shivering and shuddering once more, gasping for breath, his body almost completely limp. Thorin immediately scoops the hobbit up into his arms and carries him to their bed. Bilbo’s arms wrap loosely around his neck and his face, pressed to Thorin’s neck, is indeed wet. His breath hitches in a way Thorin is long familiar with: Bilbo Baggins is weeping.  
  
Thorin sits on the bed, cradling Bilbo in his arms, unwilling to put him down just yet.  
  
“I love you,” he whispers into Bilbo’s hair, kicking himself a thousand times over for his hastiness. “I love you, and if I’ve hurt you or frightened you, I’m sorry. So very sorry. Oh, Bilbo, my love. . . .”  
  
Bilbo continues to shake and shudder in Thorin’s arms, but after a minute, looks up. Damp, reddened, dazed eyes meet Thorin’s and finally Bilbo tries to smile. But it turns into tears again, and Thorin pulls the weeping hobbit closer. Bilbo tucks his head under Thorin’s chin.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Thorin says again, and Bilbo sniffs, laughing a little.  
  
“Don’t be . . . that was . . . I don’t even have the proper words for what that was,” Bilbo says huskily, his arms wrapping around Thorin tighter. “I’ve never felt anything like that in my life—certainly not when  _I_  used to touch myself. And I can honestly say I . . . never  _expected_ , after everything, to  _ever_  feel anything like that. This was . . .  _amazing_. I want to do it again, in fact.” A water-logged laugh. “It felt  _so good_  . . . so I don’t know why I’m crying. . . ! But I can’t seem to stop.”  
  
Rocking Bilbo slowly, Thorin kisses his hair. “No one said you have to.”  
  
Bilbo makes a frustrated noise. “I cry when I’m sad, I cry when I’m scared, and now I’m crying when I’m happy—that’s bloody lovely!”  
  
“It is not unknown for happiness to cause tears in some. In those who feel keenly, where others only scratch the surface.” Thorin leans back and tilts Bilbo’s face up till their gazes meet. “Not all tears are an evil, my love.”  
  
Bilbo sniffles and wipes his face. “I’m just so . . .  _sick of them_! Of tears! It seems as if I’ll never be free of them! One day, I’m certain to drown in them!”  
  
Thorin starts to reply when there’s a knock on the doors to his rooms. Bilbo laughs wryly.  
  
“That’ll be breakfast. Something else I can cry over,” he mutters irritably, and Thorin kisses him gently, chastely, till the small frown becomes a small smile.  
  
“Rest here a moment, and I’ll bring you breakfast abed,” Thorin says quietly, and Bilbo nods, his smile widening when Thorin stands up and places Bilbo gently in their bed. For long moments, Thorin can only stare down at his love—having never seen a more glorious sight than Bilbo Baggins, laying loose-limbed amongst strewn pillows and sheets, his nightgown, bearing a noticeable wet-spot, rucked up enough to display finely-shaped legs . . . arms tucked under the pillow behind his head, his face glowing despite the recent tears, eyes shining with happiness and a little playfulness.  
  
Never has he looked more right in their bed.  
  
“You ravish me with your eyes, my lord,” Bilbo murmurs, his smile turning into a grin.  
  
“I am helpless to do other than drink down beauty when presented with such an ample display of it,” Thorin returns, bowing as he backs away from the bed. Bilbo blushes again, but he’s still grinning.  
  
At last turning away, Thorin strides out of the bedchamber, quickly tucking himself away and lacing up his trews, unaware that he, too, is grinning.  
  
Breakfast, once laid out carefully on their bed, is eaten in focused silence, but with many a pause for shared smiles. When that breakfast is nothing but a fond memory, Thorin takes the tray out to the main chamber, dresses—including the damned robe and crown . . . how Thror ever got used to it is something Thorin will never be able to ask him—and stokes up the fire, as he’d meant to do before everything went so pleasantly awry.  
  
“Will I see you at lunch-time?” he asks Bilbo, leaning down to kiss the hobbit’s forehead. Bilbo is yawning and blinking, smiling sleepily up at Thorin.  
  
“Of course. I just need a bit of a cat-nap and I’ll be ready to tackle the day.”  
  
Thorin’s eyebrows lift gently, but he nods. “Then I shall look forward to seeing you.” Thorin kisses Bilbo’s lips tenderly, only to have Bilbo surge up into the kiss hungrily, his cool hands cupping Thorin’s face for long moments before letting go.  
  
“And I, you, my king,” he breathes, eyes shining and happy. Then he’s laying back in bed once more, a vision of sweet, sybaritic splendor. And Thorin . . . backs out of their bedchamber, his eyes ravishing a smiling, sleepily giggling Bilbo the whole way.  
  
Thorin, the last to arrive at the morning meeting—and late by at least half an hour . . . everyone is chatting and passing the time while waiting for him—is for once grateful that the ceremonial tunic he has to wear under the robe is both long and conveniently bulky, for even after what happened earlier, his body is . . . eager for more of Bilbo’s touch.  
  
He sits at the head of the table and forces the (surely idiotic) grin off his face, gazing semi-sternly at everyone. That gaze, of course, doesn’t cow Balin, and has no appreciable effect on Fili and Kili, either, who are smirking at Thorin knowingly.  
  
Balin merely smiles his shrewd smile and busies himself with writing something on a piece of parchment.  
  
Thorin clears his throat and leans forward. “To business,” he says brusquely, and everyone, even Fili and Kili, nods, straightening in their chairs, shuffling parchment, and clamoring to be the first to have their issues addressed by the king.  
  


*

  
  
When Bilbo arrives with lunch later, after an especially grueling morning, all three members of the royal family are glad to see him.  
  
As the guards shoo out the petitioners—who, after so many weeks of lunch-breaks, now know to expect it—Thorin stands and meets Bilbo halfway up the steps to the throne, taking the tray and handing it over his shoulder to Fili or Kili. And no surprise, that, since he’s been listening to both their stomachs growl for the better part of the morning. He can only hope that there’s something left for Bilbo and himself when the two giant locusts masquerading as nephews have done with the tray.  
  
“How are you, Master Baggins?” Thorin asks, pulling the hobbit up the two steps separating them, and into his arms. Bilbo goes willingly, with relief, even.  
  
“Better, now that I’m with you, my lord,” he breathes, looking up at Thorin with somber, worried eyes. Thorin reaches up and cups Bilbo’s face in his hand.  
  
“Are you—did you . . . sleep well after. . . .” Thorin blushes and clears his throat and Bilbo’s smile is small, but genuine.  
  
“I actually didn’t need very much sleep, it turns out,” he says, his eyes darting away and brow furrowing. “I was up and at the library within the hour, much to the delight of the librarians.”  
  
Searching Bilbo’s eyes, bracketed with strain and stress, Thorin leans in close and murmurs on Bilbo’s lips. “If something is wrong, my love, tell me. I worry for you.”  
  
Bilbo turns the brush of their lips into a kiss—sweet and sweetly yearning . . . and, alas, brief—before stepping past Thorin with a softly whispered: “Nothing is wrong. I’m fine. Master Kili! I think two porkchops is quite enough for one lunch!”  
  
Kili’s reply is smothered by one of those porkchops, but whatever it is, Bilbo apparently understands it well enough to snort and take Thorin’s nephew further to task. Thorin turns and climbs the rest of the stairs to his throne and lunch. A lunch during which Bilbo rarely meets his gaze, and when he does, his own is anxious and considering.  
  
More than once, Thorin wishes that they were alone . . . perhaps walking along the battlements on a moonlit night, and talking. He knows that if they were, he could have the truth out of Bilbo in minutes, about the sudden shift in mood from this morning.  
  
As it is, he simply watches his hobbit pick at his lunch—eventually passing what’s left of it to Kili, who takes it happily—while barely touching his own. Sooner, rather than later, Fili’s finagled the bulk of said lunch in bits and pieces, mostly while Thorin’s busy staring at Bilbo . . . who’s listening patiently while Kili waxes poetical about his elvish maid, Tauriel.  
  
(And  _that_  little . . . courtship only ever got off the ground because of  _Bilbo’s_  convincing Thorin to allow an elf into Erebor and to allow Kili to follow where his heart lead.)  
  
Sighing, Thorin turns his attention—what little of it he can drag away from Bilbo—to his heir, who’s putting away food as if he’s never eaten before. “And what of you, nephew? Are you . . . keeping company with anyone lately—hopefully  _not_  an elvish maid who’s been cast out of her realm?”  
  
Fili pauses, one finger in his mouth, blond eyebrows raised and blue eyes wide with what could almost be panic.  
  
“Er—no, Uncle . . . no elvish maids for me, I’m afraid,” he says finally, looking down at what had once been Thorin’s plate. Thorin’s own eyebrows quirk up.  
  
“But you  _are_  seeing someone?”  
  
“I . . .  _have_  been keeping company with someone, yes. But it’s nothing official—we haven’t decided if we . . . really suit each other, yet.” Fili  _really_  looks uncomfortable, now, and Thorin, in a moment of capriciousness, sees a chance to get some of his own back—oh, the nonsense he’d put up with when he’d first moved Bilbo into his rooms, eight weeks ago. . . .  
  
Smirking, Thorin claps Fili’s shoulder, nearly startling his nephew into dropping the plate.  
  
“And how long before you decide? How long have you and this lass been keeping company?”  
  
Fili looks downright miserable, now. “A-about two months. . . .” he says quietly, putting his plate aside. “But  _he’s_  not a lass, Uncle.”  
  
Thorin’s own eyes widen, and he becomes aware of Bilbo and Kili’s attention on them both, now, and wonders how long it’s been there. “You’re seeing a  _lad_?  _You_? The dwarf who’s bedded almost every dwarf maid from here to the Blue Mountains—some of them twice?”  
  
Fili starts to squirm. “I suppose I never  _could_  find the right girl to settle with,” he says, smiling limply. “Like uncle, like nephew, eh?”  
  
Thorin can only stare. And stare. And slowly realize that  _Kili’s_  the only hope of the line of Durin.  
  
 _Kili_ , who’s showing every sign of being hopelessly in love with an elf.  
  
Thorin buries his face in his hands and sighs.  
  


*

  
  
That evening, Thorin’s kept in meetings till approaching midnight, and when he’s finally free, seeks out Bilbo at the library, only to find it empty.  
  
After lunch, Bilbo had given every indication that he’d spend the rest of his day and evening in the library—as he has been whenever Thorin has a late night—letting Thorin kiss his hand then his cheek, before smiling wanly and carrying the tray away.  
  
Thorin, still worried and confused over the hobbit’s lukewarm reception, had simply stared after him, wishing he could follow and convince Bilbo to talk to him.  
  
Instead he’d had more of Court and petitions.  _Hours_  more of it. He’d barely been able to focus and it’d made him impatient and rather heavy-handed.  
  
Now, worry and frustration ramping up to an almost unbearable pitch, he strides off to the royal wing and their rooms. When the guards spot him coming from a distance, they open both doors in advance. Then close them immediately after their king stalks into his rooms, already removing his robe and crown. He drops them absently in a chair.  
  
He doesn’t know what he expects to see when he enters the bedchamber, but it’s certainly not what he  _does_  see:  
  
Bilbo Baggins sitting up in bed, arms wrapped around his knees, shivering a little, even in the almost stifling heat of the room, naked as the day he was born, eyes wide and anxious as Thorin enters the room.  
  
He smiles a nervous smile and sits back. “My lord,” he says softly, his voice cracking as his arms fall away from his knees and he lays back, reclining amongst pillows, limbs gone asprawl as Thorin . . . simply stares.  
  
“I’m ready for you, now,” Bilbo breathes, still smiling that nervous smile, but his eyes are steady on Thorin’s, his arms open in welcome. “R-ready to have you i-inside me.”  
  
Heart momentarily soaring, Thorin stumbles forward a few steps then stops, frowning. Finally, he closes the distance between them and sits at Bilbo’s side gingerly, not meeting Bilbo’s gaze or even looking at the lithe, lovely form he’s dreamed about for what feels like his entire life.  
  
“Tell me what’s happened since this morning, my love,” Thorin says lowly, even as gentle hands land on his shoulders . . . and Bilbo’s body presses against his back. Bilbo brushes Thorin’s hair forward, over his shoulders, and gentle, open-mouthed kisses cover Thorin’s neck.  
  
“Nothing’s happened . . . I only wish to—to—” here, Bilbo falters in a warm gust of a sigh. “I think I can do it, now. I  _want_  to do it now, while I’m still brave enough to.”  
  
“Love.” Thorin looks over his shoulder into Bilbo’s determined eyes. “Making love is not something to be done and gotten out of the way. Not something that should require of either party their bravest face. It’s something that you must  _want_  to the point of distraction. Must _need_ , above everything else. It’s something that should inspire joy, not a determination to see it done and over with as quickly as possible to prove something to oneself or to others.”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes widen and he blushes, looking away. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, my king. Or to imply that being with you would be anything less than an honor—”  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, turning so that he can rest one leg on the bed and wrap an arm around Bilbo. Bilbo’s shivers increase as Thorin’s rough fingertips brush the bare skin of his arm. “You haven’t insulted me, nor have you implied anything. You’re simply not ready for . . . this. Perhaps not even ready for what happened this morning. . . .”  
  
“But it felt so  _good_! I know I can handle it again—more, even!” Bilbo says earnestly then looks down. “I can try, anyway.”  
  
Thorin hugs the hobbit closer, kissing his sweet-smelling hair. “You shouldn’t  _have to_. Try, I mean. When the time is right, you  _won’t_  have to.”  
  
Bilbo rests his head on Thorin’s shoulder.  
  
“One step forward, two steps back,” he says miserably, and Thorin can only hold his love closer, still, and kick himself for letting what happened that morning go so far. But, as Bilbo had said, it’d felt  _so good_  . . . better than anything Thorin’s ever experienced. Better than his limited imagination had produced even in his most wanton moments of desire and fantasy.  
  
“Will it always be like this, Thorin?”  
  
Bilbo’s whisper is barely audible, and so is Thorin’s answer: “No, it won’t, Bilbo. Lord Elrond will make you well.”  
  
“What if he doesn’t come?”  
  
“He will.”  
  
“How can you be  _sure_  he’ll come?”  
  
Thorin looks down at Bilbo, who’s looking up at him worriedly. Kissing the furrow of his brow, Thorin smiles. “Because he must. Because you are unwell, because I love you, and because he must.”  
  
Bilbo sighs. “I . . . I love you, too, Thorin. I would be well, for  _you_ , if for no other reason,” he adds softly then laughs. “I would be  _worthy_  of you, if I could. But I don’t suppose Lord Elrond could manage  _that_.”  
  
“It is I who is not worthy of you, and I have proven that at every turn. This morning is merely the latest example,” Thorin says ruefully. “You’ve given me your trust and look to me to make things right for you, and instead I’ve made them worse. As you said: one step forward, two steps back.”  
  
Bilbo reaches up to caress Thorin’s face tenderly, his thumb brushing Thorin’s cheekbone.  
  
“You’ve driven so much of the darkness that lingered in my mind and heart away, Thorin—more darkness than I’d ever want to admit to. You’ve shined a light into my soul and . . . there are still shadows, yes, but they’re not as deep and not as frightening as they were even a fortnight ago. I _am already_  getting better, and it’s thanks to you.” Bilbo smiles rather sheepishly. “If this morning was a setback—and I’m not certain it was—it was  _my_  fault for pushing myself perhaps more than I should have. My own impatience that caused it.”  
  
And with that he leans up to kiss Thorin’s lips. His own are soft and sweet and unafraid—neither bold nor demanding, but nonetheless passionate.  
  
Thorin moans into the kiss, squeezing the hobbit to him, his free hand coming up to rest over Bilbo’s heart. The beat of it is strong, a bit fast, but not notably so. At least not before Bilbo gasps when one of Thorin’s rough fingertips brushes his nipple briefly.  
  
“Oh—oh, Thorin—” Bilbo pants into the kiss, his eyes opening to reveal extremely dilated pupils.  
  
 _This is a bad idea,_  Thorin thinks even as he circles Bilbo’s nipple with his index finger before running his finger across the nipple itself, which hardens almost instantly under Thorin’s touch. Bilbo squirms in his arms, his panting turned light and breathless. He is . . .  _beautiful_  this way, and this is, indeed, the  _worst_  idea Thorin’s ever had—including the time he took it into his head to beard a dragon its den. He knows this even as he lays his hobbit down on the bed and settles between his spread legs, kissing his way down Bilbo’s throat, to a cream-pale, almost hairless chest. After a moment of hesitation, he kisses Bilbo’s nipple then runs his tongue across it teasingly. Bilbo begins to writhe under him, moaning something that may be an attempt at Thorin’s name.  
  
By the time teasing becomes laving and lapping, switches from right nipple to the left, Thorin can feel Bilbo’s prick poking insistently against his stomach, even through the thick ceremonial tunic. Bilbo is squirming and rubbing against the stiff woolen fabric and making desperate high-pitched noises, his eyes squinched tight-shut even as his head rolls back and forth on the pillow, as if in negation.  
  
Thorin lets out a breath that shakes and kisses the center of Bilbo’s chest.  
  
“Do you want me to stop? Or to keep going?” he asks quietly, knowing what his answer will be, but needing to hear that answer, anyway. To hear that at least one of them thinks this is a good idea. “Shall I make you come again, Bilbo?”  
  
“Yes . . . please . . .  _yes_.”  
  
 _And how many steps back will this set him?_  Thorin wonders as he kisses his way down Bilbo’s chest and stomach—Bilbo giggles breathlessly at this point—and abdomen, till he reaches the nest of russet brown curls surrounding Bilbo’s pretty, flushed cock.  _What will be the afermath of this pleasant interlude?_  
  
Pressing a loving kiss to the shaft and the damp tip—licking his lips for the bittersweet-musky taste of his lover as he meets Bilbo’s wide, wide eyes—Thorin holds Bilbo’s gaze as he slowly takes in the hot, hard, salty flesh before him.  
  
Bilbo makes a choked sound and his hips buck involuntarily, shoving his prick partway down Thorin’s throat. Thorin—who’s been taught by experience what to expect when sucking someone who’s  _inexperienced_ —simply breathes through his nose and slides back off Bilbo’s prick somewhat to compensate.  
  
“Th-Th—” Bilbo is stuttering, spreading his legs instinctively wider, his eyes still open wide and unblinking as he watches Thorin’s cheeks hollow while he pulls off slightly, his tongue tracing the tip of Bilbo’s prick and teasing the source of that bittersweet salt-musk taste for more.  
  
And more he gets when without other warning than a soft cry of pleasure and dismay, Bilbo comes in his mouth.  
  
Thorin swallows and keeps sucking and teasing until he’s certain he’s wrung every last drop from his lover—until Bilbo’s a limp, panting, barely-conscious sprawl of hobbit. Then Thorin’s kissing his way back up Bilbo’s damp body—getting a tiny moan when he kisses Bilbo’s stomach this time—till he’s tasting the hobbit’s lips again, so, so sweet after the bitter salt of his release.  
  
Bilbo returns the kisses in a languid, dazed fashion, his hands coming up to settle on Thorin’s arms, which are braced to either side of Bilbo’s body, keeping Thorin’s weight off of Bilbo.  
  
“Are you alright?” Thorin asks between kisses, and Bilbo sighs.  
  
“If I was anymore alright, I’d be unconscious,” he says, sounding as dazed as he looks, and Thorin chuckles, turning his kisses to the spot just below Bilbo’s ear. Bilbo shivers. “That was _lovely_ , my king.”  
  
“Indeed, it was.” Thorin nibbles Bilbo’s ear lobe till the hobbit starts giggling again, his hands clenching on the material of Thorin’s tunic.  
  
“Won’t you take this off, Thorin?” he asks hesitantly. “I would l-like to see you, if you don’t mind.”  
  
Surprised, Thorin sits up and gazes down at Bilbo, searching fond, anticipatory eyes. After a few moments, he nods, and the tunic is gone in seconds, sailing across the bedroom to land on the guarderobe. It’s immediately followed by the linen undershirt Thorin’d had on beneath it, leaving Thorin half-naked and Bilbo staring in awe.  
  
“You are . . .  _so_  beautiful,” he says at last, his eyes meeting Thorin’s briefly before he’s sitting up and reaching out to run his fingers through Thorin’s chest hair, tugging on it lightly. Then he’s scooting forward a little to kiss the center of Thorin’s chest. _Then_  he’s kissing the spot directly over Thorin’s heart.  _Then_  he’s kissing Thorin’s nipple.  
  
Thorin’s hands come up to plunge into Bilbo’s hair and hold him in place as his tongue circles the instantly pointed flesh.  
  
“Bilbo,” Thorin sighs and Bilbo’s teeth close on Thorin’s nipple none-too-gently, causing Thorin to cry out and Bilbo to start guiltily.  
  
“Did I—did I hurt you?” he asks, his voice cracking once more with concern as he glances up at Thorin. Thorin lets out a breath and smiles.  
  
“I could do with a little more hurting, Master Baggins,” he replies, and Bilbo blinks then smiles, blushing and reapplying himself to his task.  
  
This lasts until Thorin, himself hard enough to shatter diamond, undoes his breeches and takes himself in hand.  
  
“Bilbo—I’m about to—I must—” he begins delicately, trying to warn the hobbit, who merely looks up at him and smiles again. He wraps his arms around Thorin’s waist and makes to lean back into the pillows, pulling an unresisting Thorin with him. Then tugging on Thorin’s arms till he gets the idea and gingerly settles his weight on Bilbo.  
  
Bilbo wraps his arms around Thorin’s neck and gazes up into Thorin’s eyes trustingly, until Thorin straddles Bilbo’s lean thighs and pushes his aching hardness against Bilbo’s softened prick and the curls that surround it. This late in the game, the friction is more than he can take and he buries his face in Bilbo’s shoulder for a few moments before leaning over the hobbit to kiss him hard, his fingers coming up to pinch and tease Bilbo’s nipples once more. When Bilbo moans loudly into the kiss and starts arching up to meet Thorin’s thrusts, Thorin hisses and swears as what feels like his very lifeforce is drawn out of him in pulses so burning and intense they hurt—leave him calling on Durin, himself, as if his life depends upon such a prayer.  
  
Till finally, he collapses on top of Bilbo, gasping and shaking—wincing as his sensitized, half-hard prick slides in his own release and Bilbo’s drenched curls.  
  
Moaning, he has enough presence of mind to roll off his hobbit—to the side away from the fire—and onto his back. When Bilbo rolls with him and settles against him, Thorin drapes one tired, limp arm over Bilbo’s shoulders, holding him close.  
  
Before Thorin drops off into a sated, exhausted slumber, the last thing he feels is gentle kisses raining across his chest, the last thing he hears is Bilbo’s quiet, solemn  _I love you_ s. . . .  
  


*

  
  
The next thing Thorin knows, he’s opening bleary eyes, already half-sitting up. Bilbo’s already sitting all the way up, clutching the covers to his still naked body and looking toward the open bedchamber door.  
  
“What is it, love? What time is it?” Thorin asks sleepily, pulling Bilbo into his arms and trying to lay them both back down. But Bilbo puts a hand on his chest.  
  
“It’s not yet morning. And the guards are knocking—it’s Balin and he’s got something for you,” Bilbo says, looking worried. Thorin groans and sits up again, swinging his legs—still half-clad in his breeches—over the side of the bed. He yawns and stretches before standing and pulling them up.  
  
Without bothering with undershirt or tunic, he shuffles out of their bedchamber, still barely awake.  
  
That changes when he opens the door to his rooms to see Balin standing there, holding out a folded, sealed piece of parchment. Thorin takes it with a question in his eyes that Balin answers.  
  
“It’s a missive from Imladris, my king. It arrived less than half an hour ago,” Balin says, allowing himself a hopeful smile. “I believe it might be the one you’ve been waiting for.”  
  
Thorin’s mouth drops open. “Which messenger brought it?”  
  
“Reuel.”  
  
“Ah.” Fighting a grin—who knows what the letter contains? Best not to go counting chickens before they’ve hatched—Thorin turns back into his rooms, carefully breaking the seal. “Make certain he’s well rewarded for his speed and dedication.”  
  
“That, I will, my king.”  
  
Thorin’s already unrolling the parchment and mouthing the missive word for word as he walks back toward the bedchamber. He doesn’t even hear the guards close the door after Balin leaves.  
  
When he returns to the bedchamber, Bilbo is still sitting up, but dressed in his nightgown, now, and under the covers once more. His eyes are wide and still worried.  
  
“Is everything alright, Thorin?” he asks, and Thorin looks up, smiling, framed in the doorway. “Thorin?”  
  
“Everything is just fine, my love.  _More_  than fine. It  _will be_  . . . wonderful.” Thorin crosses the room and sits at Bilbo’s side, holding out the letter. Frowning, Bilbo scans it quickly, his own eyes going wide, and reads it again, this time slower.  
  
Then he looks up at Thorin, hope unhidden and bright in his lovely eyes.  
  
“One week?”  
  
Thorin nods. “Barring unforeseen events, he says he should be but seven days behind the messenger carrying this letter.”  
  
Bilbo blinks suddenly, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Oh,” he says softly, and: “Oh, Thorin, he’s coming  _here_! But—why? Just to help  _me_? I’m nothing—I’m nobody! I don’t understand. . . .”  
  
Thorin pulls Bilbo into his arms, clutching him the way the hobbit clutches the letter: like it’s his salvation. “You are not nothing or nobody, Bilbo Baggins. You are  _everything_. The reason I have this chance to make things right for my people. The reason Smaug is now dead. This world owes you a debt it will never be able to repay. As do I,” he adds, smiling a little. “Lord Elrond is coming here because of all that, and because though your acquaintance was brief you, my dear hobbit, have this strange way of leaving your mark on the hearts and minds of those you meet. You are . . . unforgettable. And you inspire an open heart and loyalty—a willingness to aide you in all those of good heart who meet you.”  
  
Bilbo snorts and blushes. “You’re biased, Thorin.”  
  
“Understandably.”  
  
At last smiling, Bilbo kisses Thorin lightly. “Well, since  _I_  can’t figure out a good reason for him to come all this way to help  _me_ , I shall have to take your word for it.”  
  
“Mm . . . a wise decision, Master Baggins.” Thorin steals another kiss, this one longer and deeper than the previous one. His hand comes up to Bilbo’s nightgown, resting on the six small buttons . . . which are not, as he’d expected, buttoned up to Bilbo’s chin.  
  
 _Hmm_ ing, Thorin pushes the gown off one warm, smooth shoulder as far as it will go, and kisses his way down Bilbo’s shoulder, then moving across to latch onto Bilbo’s nipple with gentle teeth.  
  
Bilbo chuckles, his hands coming up to Thorin’s hair, carding through it as Thorin worries at the nub of flesh between his teeth. Shortly, he has Bilbo pushed down to the bed and squirming beneath him, Thorin himself straddling the hobbit’s legs once more. He sits up to look down into Bilbo’s eyes and sees nothing there but wonder and happiness.  
  
“You are lovely,” Thorin murmurs, kissing Bilbo’s eyelids and lips, lingering there for long minutes, until they both get hard—though, admittedly, Thorin had woken up half-hard—and start grinding down against and arching up against each other, respectively. Thorin pushes down the inconvenient breeches and up the inconvenient nightgown, his hand sliding up Bilbo’s thigh, and inward, till he can grasp both himself and Bilbo in a tight, possessive grip.  
  
“Oh,  _my lord_ ,” Bilbo sighs happily, his body describing a graceful arch up out of the soft pillows as Thorin strokes, slow and hard. “More . . . please,  _more_. . . .”  
  
This time, Thorin doesn’t have to ask if Bilbo is certain—doesn’t have to worry if the tears leaking out of clear, autumn eyes are the result of shame or fright. When his hand starts moving on them both, Bilbo lets out a long, soft groan and blinks up at Thorin as if he hung the moon.  
  
“You’re very silly, for a hobbit, you know,” Thorin muses, leaning down to nuzzle Bilbo’s cheek. “Making calf-eyes at me.”  
  
Bilbo chuckles again, breathlessly. “And  _you’re_  very unobservant if you’re only just now noticing that I make calf-eyes at you, my king,” he says tartly. Then giggles when Thorin’s weight settles fully on him and large fingers glide over his side. “Ah! No tickling! Not fair!”  
  
Thorin grins and braces himself once more on his arm and continues stroking them. They gaze into each other’s eyes for as long as they can until Bilbo’s eyes flutter shut and his body goes still, that sweet, soft cry drawn out of him as warm wetness spills over Thorin’s fist. Thorin watches his love’s face in the throes of passion, kisses the bitten lower lip and buries his own face in the junction between neck and shoulder, his strokes speeding up as he brings himself off surrounded by his lover’s scent.  
  
Bilbo’s hands smooth his hair as he groans and hisses—and afterwards he collapses on top of Bilbo once more, panting for breath and working his hand out from between their bodies.  
  
“Seven days,” Bilbo murmurs in his hair quietly. “Seven days until Lord Elrond arrives, and after that . . . after that, I  _will_  get better, Thorin. For you. And on the night of that first day I’m finally whole, I’ll come to you in this bed, and give myself to you completely. Body and soul.”  
  
Thorin moans, his spent prick twitching again with every sign of interest in this possible future. “Bilbo, love—”  
  
“I’ll have you inside me at last . . . filling me up till I don’t know where you end and I begin . . . it’ll be  _glorious_. . . .” Bilbo sighs and kisses Thorin’s hair. “I’ll do my best to make that day come soon. For you.”  
  
Thorin rolls them over so that Bilbo is atop him, and kisses the grimly determined mouth above his own, till it curves with a small smile. “Soon or not—or never, Bilbo Baggins, this, what we’ve been doing is, as I’ve said, more than I could have hoped for or expected.”  
  
“But not as much as you deserve. You deserve all of me, and then some. And with Lord Elrond’s help . . . you’ll get as much of me as I can possibly give.” Bilbo nods stubbornly, so sincerely, Thorin can only sigh and smile his agreement and hope that Lord Elrond can deliver on his promise to “help the hobbit to heal his mind and spirit.”  
  
Bilbo’s answering smile is brighter than the sun that is no doubt, by now, rising in the sky. He kisses Thorin happily. And kisses him and kisses him well past the chiming of the clock, and until breakfast arrives with a discreet knock.


	5. Dawn of a New Age 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Lord Elrond on his way, Bilbo seems to be doing better. But then, things are rarely what they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I didn’t make these guys up.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

On the morning of the fourth day since the arrival of Lord Elrond’s letter, Thorin awakens with the chiming of the clock.  
  
In the same position in which he’d fallen asleep—asprawl, flat on his back, Bilbo Baggins sprawled atop him—he’s barely taken it into his head to move, ‘ere he’s the subject of the most delightful and surprising brushes tongue—of tentative, curious licks to the tip of his half-hard prick. Which doesn’t stay  _half-_ hard for very much longer.  
  
Smiling up at the ceiling without so much as opening his eyes, Thorin lays there and lets the sensations continue without giving further sign that he’s awoken. Bilbo’s small, steady hand is gently curved around and stroking the base of his prick while he licks and kisses his way about the head and shaft, his actions growing bolder with the passage of eternal minutes, during which Thorin has to struggle not to give himself away by sound or motion.  
  
Of course, this struggle, it turns out, is all for naught, for Bilbo finally kisses the tip of his prick again, giving the base another firm squeeze. “I know you’re playing possum, my king,” he breathes, laughter in his voice, his tongue flicking out to tease Thorin mercilessly. Thorin twitches involuntarily, a soft groan sneaking out from between his slightly parted lips. “I knew the moment you woke up.”  
  
Opening his eyes and sitting up on his elbows, Thorin watches as Bilbo continues to delicately tease the slit of his prick, collecting the wetness that wells out on his tongue with an innocent lack of self-consciousness. Thorin resists the suddenly strong urge to roll them both over and reciprocate. “What gave me away, Master Baggins?”  
  
Those lovely eyes dart away from their focus on Thorin’s prick for but a moment. Yet long enough for Thorin to see the fondness and desire in them. “Well, for one thing, you always wake up when that bloody clock chimes. And for another thing, you quite suddenly got a lot harder when it did.” Nuzzling the shaft of Thorin’s prick, Bilbo sighs. “And for a third thing, your breathing changed and every muscle in your thighs contracted. They don’t just  _do that_. Especially when you’re still asleep.”  
  
“Hmm.” Thorin smiles as Bilbo studies his prick as if trying to memorize it. Or figure out where to begin. “And do you watch me so much, waking and sleeping?”  
  
Bilbo snorts, meeting Thorin’s gaze again, his own a bit weary, a bit apologetic. “Watching you, awake or asleep, is more restful to me than a night’s sleep. It pleases my eyes and refreshes my spirit in a way that sleep rarely does, anymore.” He braces both hands on Thorin’s thighs, and before Thorin can ask the obvious question— _are you not sleeping again, my love? Have the nightmares returned?_ —Bilbo’s leaning down with a quickly in-drawn breath, to take the head of Thorin’s prick into his mouth. Another groan escapes Thorin, loud and long, as he flops back into the pillows, lower lip bitten as he fights not to thrust up into the hesitant sucking and wet warmth of Bilbo Baggins’mouth.  
  
It’s a fight he loses, for the most part, his body arching up toward Bilbo, prick sliding even further into that lovely, willing mouth. Bilbo moans softly, almost hungrily, his mouth sliding slightly further down Thorin’s prick, and Thorin sees fireworks on the backs of eyes he hadn’t been aware of closing. Only to be met with his ceiling when they fly open again, as Bilbo brings his agile tongue into play.  
  
The hobbit’s small hands pet and gentle Thorin’s thighs, the muscles of which are indeed strung tight with trying to control himself—to keep himself from simply coming as hard as he can as fast as he can. What Bilbo lacks in experience, he more than makes up for with his curiosity and obvious enthusiasm, and those are things that Thorin values highly in a lover, for he knows they can’t be taught or learned.  
  
After an eternity of sweet exploration and torture, one of Bilbo’s hands leaves Thorin’s thigh and settles on the shaft of his prick again, stroking and squeezing it tightly in his surprisingly strong grip, mouth firmly latched onto the tip alternately swiping the head and tonguing the slit. Thorin’s groans are almost constant, now, and loud enough to no doubt be heard even by the guards outside their rooms. He’s trying to fight the demands of his body to thrust himself down Bilbo’s throat and to come immediately upon doing so. But his control is slowly, but surely slipping away, his hips bucking off the bed in aborted thrusts, his bollocks burning with his impending release.  
  
“Oh, my love,” he grits out, fists bunched in the sheets as his back arches off the bed and the tingling at the base of his spine becomes a warning he can no longer ignore. “I’m coming—I’m—”  
  
Bilbo hums his acknowledgement and speeds up the strokes of tongue and hand. But it’s the humming, really, that does Thorin in—makes him practically levitate off the bed as climax claims his body and soul. But for the burning pleasure that races through his veins and from his aching prick, he ceases to exist for brief aeons. He is nothing but the intense, unparalleled pleasure that has its way with him, leaving him blind to fireworks on the backs of his eyelids and deaf to his own hoarse, breathless shouts. . . .  
  
. . . only to finally deposit him back in himself, and in his bed, panting for air with lungs that have forgotten how to process it properly. He slowly becomes aware of how tightly shut his eyes are, and opens them to the flicker of firelight on the ceiling, though his mind is not yet composed enough to understand the leap and play of shadows, only follow them wonderingly as his body tingles and shudders and shivers.  
  
After a time, when the firelight has begun to make sense, and his body has cooled and calmed down enough to make thought possible once more, Thorin sighs shakily, almost with dismay.  
  
 _He overwhelms me, so . . . even just his mouth . . . if and when the time comes when I can truly make love to him, push into and be held by the heat of his body . . . when I come, I’ll surely die of the pleasure. . . ._  
  
Then Thorin’s not thinking much else as Bilbo’s lips press his own, lightly at first, then more demandingly, his tongue seeking entrance and bringing with it, aside from its usual sweetness, the bitter-salt taste of Thorin’s release. The combination is unexpectedly arousing, and Thorin shudders and moans as his prick attempts to get hard again at the sudden flush of desire, and under Bilbo’s gentle hand.  
  
Bringing his own hand up to cup Bilbo’s face, Thorin lets himself be kissed and petted until he notices a persistent knocking sound.  
  
Making an annoyed, rather grumpy groan, Bilbo breaks the kiss with several smaller kisses, his lips resting on Thorin’s before he speaks.  
  
“That’ll be breakfast,” he says hoarsely, and Thorin once more feels that insane, insatiable desire course through him. He is, he knows, the cause of that hoarseness and he finds that he likes the sound of it just fine. He opens his eyes to see Bilbo’s lovely, smiling face above his own, full pink lips swollen so prettily. “Rest here, and I’ll bring you breakfast abed.”  
  
Bilbo kisses him again, lightly, before he can respond, then he’s gone. Muttering to himself as he crosses the room to the guarderobe and begins sorting through the pile of their clothing which had been tossed at the huge piece of furniture, but not put inside it.  
  
Then the pad-slap of those fuzzy hobbit-feet are off to the main room.  
  
When Bilbo returns bearing a large silver tray with breakfast—and wearing nothing but, it turns out, Thorin’s sleep tunic, which comes down past Bilbo’s dimpled knees—he places the tray carefully on the bed next to Thorin, who manages to budge over a bit, despite his limp, leaden body. Then Bilbo sits at the foot of the bed, scooting closer, and begins to unpack breakfast with focused efficiency.  
  
As if he has no idea that he’s rendered the King Under the Mountain utterly useless for his rapidly approaching duties.  
  
“My love,” Thorin begins, and Bilbo looks up at him, smiling. Thorin smiles back besottedly, having entirely lost the thread of what he’d intended to say. Instead, he feels another flush of desire, almost random in its aimlessness, and inspired by nothing more than the sight of Bilbo Baggins wearing Thorin’s tunic, and the way said tunic has, because Bilbo’s sitting tailor-style, pulled up to mid-thigh—though Thorin, from his laying-down vantage point, can see quite a bit further. “You are. . . .”  
  
Bilbo’s eyebrows lift questioningly.  
  
“Amazing,” Thorin finishes tenderly, and Bilbo blushes, looking down at the plate he’s preparing. It’s heaped with flapjacks and sausages and scrambled eggs. “No one—and I mean  _no one_ —has ever . . . I’ve never come so hard in my life.”  
  
“Oh, go on, Thorin,” Bilbo mumbles, but his smile is small and pleased. “ _I’ve_ never done . . .  _that_ before in my life. I can’t have been very good.”  
  
“You were perfect,” Thorin says, struggling up to his elbows, despite his body’s protests and demands for a nice, long lie-in. “Any better and I’d have keeled over, dead.”  
  
Now, Bilbo’s crimson, and he holds out Thorin’s plate. “Oh, go on,” he says again, and Thorin grins, sitting up fully to take the plate. Then a knife, fork, and napkin.  
  
“I’ll never be able to focus on the rest of my day, after that,” he murmurs, tucking his own legs in, tailor-style, and moving closer to Bilbo, who’s staring at the tray, still smiling, still blushing. Thorin reaches out and brushes his fingertips across Bilbo’s curving, lovely lips. “All I shall be able to think about is your mouth, Master Baggins.”  
  
Bilbo’s breath catches and his eyes meet Thorin’s squarely. “And all  _I_  shall be able to think about whilst down in the library will be your cock . . . though, admittedly, that’s what I think about most of the time when I’m there, these days. At this rate, I’ll  _never_  be fluent in Khuzdul,” he laments and laughs a little, and Thorin grins. They gaze at each other for long moments before Bilbo blushes again and Thorin’s gaze turns considering. The fingers lingering at the corner of Bilbo’s mouth graze his cheek.  
  
“You ravish me with your eyes, my lord,” Bilbo breathes and Thorin moves a bit closer, holding Bilbo’s wide, dilated gaze.  
  
“That is because  _you are ravishing_  in naught but my tunic. Even more ravishing out of it,” Thorin adds lowly, his hand dropping to Bilbo’s thigh, on which it slides up, taking the hem of the tunic with it, his questing fingers coming upon the hard, hot flesh rising from crisp curls.  
  
Breath hitching again, Bilbo’s eyes flutter shut briefly. “M-my lord,” he begins, and Thorin puts his plate to the side, breakfast suddenly reprioritized in the grand scope of his day.  
  
“You haven’t come, yet.”  
  
Another crimson flush. “I o-only come when  _you_  touch me.”  
  
“Shall I touch you, then, Bilbo Baggins?”  
  
“P-please. . . .”  
  
Thorin lifts the heavy tray with one hand and places it next to his plate, almost completely certain that breakfast will wind up all over the sheets, and not caring one bit. He pulls a breathless and shivering Bilbo into his arms and kisses the hobbit gently.  
  
Bilbo straddles Thorin’s lap, arms wrapping around Thorin’s neck and Thorin pushes the tunic up with one hand that then settles on Bilbo’s back, the other hand making its way between their bodies to feel for Bilbo’s prick. The long, happy moan he gets when his hand closes around it is music to his ears, as is Bilbo’s mumbled  _yes_ es as he kisses his way to Thorin’s ear, where he bites the lobe just hard enough to make Thorin hiss and his spent prick twitch with interest.  
  
He noses Bilbo’s soft, sweet hair and slides his fingers down to the base of Bilbo’s prick, thence to cup his bollocks possessively, squeezing oh, so gently. Bilbo gasps, pressing his body against Thorin’s even tighter, his breath hot and humid in Thorin’s ear.  
  
“ _Yes_ , my lord,” he whispers as Thorin fondles him, slow and gently, then a bit faster and less gently as Bilbo rocks into his touch desperately. “Oh, oh . . .  _please_. . . .”  
  
He seems to be on the cusp of his climax, but not quite able to achieve it. Thorin risks squeezing Bilbo tighter and tugging on his bollocks more firmly, and the hobbit shudders in his arms, his hips thrusting forward. As a consequence, one of Thorin’s rough fingertips slides across the strip of sensitive skin directly behind his bollocks, and Bilbo stiffens in his arms, crying out, loud and surprised. Thorin instinctively rubs his finger back and forth across that patch of skin, slow and hard and Bilbo cries out again, even louder, and for much longer as wet heat paints Thorin’s chest and stomach.  
  
“That’s it, love . . . come for me,” Thorin rumbles, his face pressed to Bilbo’s hair as the hobbit shakes and shudders, hips still moving as Thorin continues rubbing and stroking, and Bilbo comes and comes. . . .  
  
Until he goes suddenly limp in Thorin’s embrace with a soft, sated sigh.  
  
When, after a few silent minutes have passed, Thorin kisses Bilbo’s hair and temple, and eases his tight grip on the hobbit, just enough to look down at him, he discovers that Bilbo Baggins is, with a sweetly serene smile on his lovely face, quite deeply asleep.  
  


*

  
  
Having wolfed down a breakfast that feels quite well-earned, Thorin then dresses quickly, stokes up the fire, places the breakfast tray safely on the night table for Bilbo, arranges the covers over his still-sleeping lover—after gazing at him for long minutes and wishing he could linger abed with him—before kissing Bilbo’s forehead tenderly and quietly making his way out of their bedchamber.  
  
He’s late again to the morning meeting, but wastes no time calling it to order, going over business with a single-minded focus that surprises him—rather than being distracted by the events of the morning, Thorin is inspired by them to finish his day as quickly and efficiently as possible, all the sooner to be back in Bilbo’s arms . . . and, should Bilbo feel up to it, Bilbo’s mouth. . . .  
  
The rest of the morning seems to pass at a reasonable speed, neither fast nor slow, though Thorin definitely perks up as lunch-time approaches . . . only to be puzzled when the time for lunch has come and gone with no sign of either his lover or lunch.  
  
He can sense Fili and Kili’s own puzzlement and hear their growling stomachs as he wonders if Bilbo is still asleep—a thought which makes him smile for many reasons, not the least of which is that the hobbit obviously needs the rest—or had simply gotten wrapped up in his studies in the library, after all. . . .  
  
All of a sudden the crowd before the throne begins to part from the back and Thorin’s heart lifts as he half-stands, expecting to see Bilbo Baggins emerge from the milling, murmuring dwarves, tray in hand and a smile on his face.  
  
What he sees, instead, is his sister, looking both worried and sympathetic.  
  
Without stopping she marches past the petitioners and up the steps to the throne. Up to Thorin.  
  
“Brother,” she says softly, and bows gracefully to Thorin.  
  
“’Lo, Mum,” Fili and Kili both say respectfully, seeming startled and uncertain. Dis tends to avoid Court like the plague, preferring, instead the outdoors of the mountain, itself, and the streets of New Dale.  
  
“Sister.” Thorin inclines his head, frowning. Whatever troubles Dis, it must be terribly important to bring Dis to Court while it’s in session. “Is something the matter?”  
  
Taking a deep breath, Dis’ worried blue eyes meet Thorin’s own. “It’s your hobbit, Master Baggins. Thorin, he’s—”  
  
But Thorin’s already up and shouldering past her, his quick stride becoming a run as he passes the petitioners, who part like a river around a boulder for him.  
  


*

  
  
When he arrives at his rooms, the guards are standing in their usual places, but seem to be unusually flustered. They immediately open the doors for Thorin, already trying to explain and apologize.  
  
“He was screaming in his sleep and wouldn’t wake up, your majesty, and we didn’t know what to do, since you were in Court—” Arlen says quickly, and Thorin pauses in the doorway, in the notable  _silence_  coming from their rooms. Then Muir takes up the tale.  
  
“But her highness heard and came to see what the trouble was—”  
  
“She woke him up, but he wouldn’t stop screaming until a couple minutes ago,” Arlen finishes, sounding almost out of breath. Then he adds: “He won’t let anyone near him, though.”  
  
Suddenly ice-cold, Thorin glances over his shoulder, reigning in his own misplaced anger—it is not  _Arlen and Muir’s_  fault, this . . . setback . . . it is none but Thorin’s—and controlling his voice. “Should this ever happen again, one of you is to come get me immediately, no matter where I am or what I’m doing.  _Immediately_  . . . am I clear?”  
  
“Yes, your majesty.” Both guards answer in tandem, the metallic jangle of their armor as they bow already a distant sound as Thorin hurries toward the bedchamber.  
  
The doors are open and, when he steps in slowly, the room itself is chilly and dark. He pauses in the doorway, scanning the bed for Bilbo.  
  
The bed is empty. As is, seemingly, the rest of the bedchamber. Empty, at least, of Bilbo.  
  
“Love . . . Bilbo?” Thorin calls gently, trying to banish a concerned quaver from his voice. “It’s Thorin . . . are you alright?”  
  
It’s a ridiculous question, but one that Bilbo, even in a state of unreasoning panic, should recognize and respond to.  
  
Indeed, there’s a rustling from behind the guarderobe and Thorin, without moving any other part of himself, turns his gaze to it.  
  
In the dark of the room, he can make out a pale half-circle, slowly revealing itself from around the shadowed bulk of the guarderobe.  
  
“ _Thorin_?” Bilbo’s voice is hoarse again, but for an entirely different reason, this time. Hoarse and disoriented, in a way it hasn’t been in the two months since he started sharing Thorin’s bed. “What’s g-going on? Where am I? Who w-were those  _people_? What—?”  
  
And Bilbo trails off, ducking back behind the guarderobe a bit, his wide, frightened, dazed eyes the only part of his face that’s visible. Thorin swallows around his heart which, despite the tight confines of his throat, feels as if it might split in twain.  
  
“It’s alright, love. You’re safe,” he says quietly, holding out his hands placatingly as he makes his way slowly toward guarderobe and lover. “You’re in our rooms, remember? And . . . what people?”  
  
Bilbo’s face peers further out from behind the guarderobe and he glances around the room quickly, warily, before looking at Thorin again. “Th-those strange dwarves in armor—they h-had axes and they wouldn’t stop yelling at me. . . .”  
  
Thorin swallows again. Talkative, Arlen is, but he isn’t loud. And Muir had spoken more to Thorin, just a few minutes ago, than he likely had in his whole life previously. Neither guard would be prone to yelling. And certainly not to their king’s lover. Though it might seem that they _had_  been yelling to someone in a high state of panic. “That was Arlen and Muir . . . two of my personal guard . . . you remember them, don’t you? They guard us . . . keep us safe. . . .”  
  
Bilbo leans a little further out from behind the guarderobe. Enough for Thorin to see that he’s still wearing the tunic from this morning. And despite its heaviness, is still shivering.  
  
“You had a night terror, my love,” Thorin continues softly, and Bilbo blinks, still seeming dazed and disoriented. “Sometimes, when you sleep, you have . . . nightmares that you can’t remember, and you shout or scream. Arlen and Muir—and my sister, Dis—were only trying to waken you from a nightmare.”  
  
Bilbo blinks and shudders. “They . . . they won’t hurt us?”  
  
“No, they will not.”  
  
Half-way from behind the guarderobe, now, eyes still wide and frightened, Bilbo hugs the piece of furniture like it’s his protector. “And we’re . . . we’re in Erebor, right?”  
  
“Yes, my love.” Thorin’s approach slows when he’s within ten feet of Bilbo, and the hobbit begins edging back behind the guarderobe. “We’re safe under the mountain.”  
  
Bilbo looks around again, seeming a bit less confused, though no less wary. When his eyes tick back to Thorin, they’re intent and narrowed. “Why’s it so  _cold_  in here?”  
  
“Because the fire’s burnt low . . . but I can build it up, if you like.” And so saying, Thorin’s turning to the hearth. He can feel Bilbo’s wary gaze on him as he adds logs and gets the fire to blazing . . . can sense the hobbit eventually move from behind the guarderobe and closer, drawn more by the heat of the fire than by Thorin.  
  
Thorin, himself, trying to present as unthreatening a figure as possible, merely warms already sweating hands at the fire when he’s done with it. He wishes he dared move to take off the crown, robe, and the damned tunic, but he refuses to do anything that will frighten his lover . . . more than he’s already frightened him.  
  
That thought is accompanied by a pang of self-recrimination and hurt so deep, it feels almost like a mortal blow—makes him gasp in a breath that startles Thorin, himself, and a slowly approaching Bilbo.  
  
But nevertheless, in minutes that feel like days, Bilbo’s drawn even with him at the hearth, his small hands held out to it, but his gaze still on Thorin, at least as tangible as the heat from the fire.  
  
“Are you . . . alright, now?” Thorin asks again, daring to glance at his love. Bilbo’s watching him with stricken, weary, tear-filled eyes. But they seem more present, and far less confused.  
  
“No,” Bilbo says finally, softly, and then laughs, a brief, miserable bark of a sound. “No, Thorin, I don’t suppose I am.”  
  
And when Thorin turns to him, his arms opening with a mixture of hope and hesitance, Bilbo creeps into them almost cautiously, shuddering when Thorin’s arms close around him protectively. Then he’s dissolving into deep, silent sobs that shake his small frame so violently, it feels as if he’ll fly apart to Thorin, who can only hold him tighter and murmur:  _It's safe here. You're safe, now, and I love you. . . ._  
  
Heart breaking, Thorin can only hope that his words and his embrace—his  _love_ , is enough to hold his hobbit together until Lord Elrond arrives.  
  
He can only hope. . . .


	6. Dawn of a New Age 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days have passed since Bilbo’s setback, and they have not been good days . . . but there are a few rays of hope and, at long last, a much-anticipated visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I wish I could lay claim to these characters but, alas, I cannot.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“Thorin?”  
  
Pausing in the middle of dressing for the day—ceremonial tunic, robe, and the crown that lies so heavily on his head—Thorin turns to face Bilbo, who’s watching him with wide, frightened eyes in faint dark circles.  
  
In the three days since his last night terror—perhaps the worst the hobbit had ever had, just going on the aftermath of heightened fear, uncontrollable weeping, and recurring confusion—Bilbo hasn’t slept once, nor even so much as closed his eyes for the occasional cat naps that had once sustained him for several months in lieu of  _real_  sleep.  
  
Thorin is . . . more than worried for Bilbo. He is  _frightened_  for him. For the first time since the hobbit went off to burgle the Arkenstone and face Smaug . . . Thorin is aware that this is something he cannot protect Bilbo from. In fact, considering all that’s happened, when it comes to Bilbo’s nightmares and crumbling sanity, Thorin is worse than useless, he is  _helpless_. A mere bystander watching something beautiful and innocent be battered down and rendered unrecognizable by forces beyond the control of any.  
  
Save, perhaps, Lord Elrond. . . .  
  
Who will, should his journey go as planned, be arriving within the next day.  
  
“Yes, my love,” Thorin says softly, trying on a hopeful smile. A smile Bilbo would once have died or worse for, but now, doesn’t even notice. His eyes have the bright, but distant shine of an impending spell of panic and/or confusion, and during those times, Thorin has learned over the past three days, the hobbit notices nothing of Thorin save his absence.  
  
“Must you go?” A tear runs down Bilbo’s face, and it’s telling, indeed, that far from being impatient with his tears, as he’d used to be, the hobbit doesn’t even notice when one tear becomes more. Becomes a flood from his now constantly swollen eyes. “It’s so quiet a-and cold when you’re gone, and I get so frightened and c-confused. The shadows lay so deep. . . .”  
  
Wincing, Thorin makes his careful, nonthreatening way to their bed. Bilbo’s round eyes mark his progress with no appreciable dent in their fear and misery. But when Thorin sits gingerly on the bed next to him, Bilbo immediately crowds close, letting out a relieved sigh when Thorin’s arm goes around him and pulls him close.  
  
“My love . . . I’ve suspended Court for the past three days, during which I’ve barely left these rooms. If it were up to me, I would stay by your side always. But there’s work that needs doing. Work that only  _I_  can do.” Thorin kisses Bilbo’s crown when he shivers. “But I’ll only be gone until noon. Then I’ll be back for lunch, remember? We spoke of this last night?”  
  
Bilbo is quick to nod, though Thorin has his doubts that the hobbit actually remembers the conversation clearly—or remembers it at all. In the past few days, Bilbo’s memory has obviously become compromised by the last night terror and the lack of sleep. His sense of time is also . . . slipping dramatically. In his better moments, he’s tentatively aware of where and when he is, and in worse moments . . . he thinks they’re still questing for Erebor and seems to not recognize that that time is more than one year past. . . .  
  
Now, tilting Bilbo’s face up to look into those eyes that he loves and see what there is to see, Thorin gazes down into clouded autumn skies, the threat of rain a promise that’s been kept.  
  
“Do you know where you are, my love?” he asks gently, steeling himself for answers ranging from the slightly wrong to the outright bizarre. But Bilbo merely gazes into his eyes for long moments before shaking his head no, his pale cheeks burning with shame and chagrin.  
  
“I knew a few minutes ago, but . . . I’ve forgotten again,” he whispers, hanging his head. It’s another mark of how his condition has . . . deteriorated that instead of waves of frustration, this admission is accompanied by more confusion and puzzlement.  _Weary_  confusion and puzzlement. “I’m so  _sorry_ , Thorin—”  
  
“But there’s nothing to be sorry for, love. Nothing at all.” Thorin attempts another smile, even though Bilbo can’t see it. “As for where you are . . . and  _when_  . . . you are in my kingdom. In Erebor. And Smaug is long dead, thanks to you,” he’s quick to add, before Bilbo can go into another state of panic at having to face a dragon he’d already faced more than a year ago. A dragon that is so much rot in a distant field.  
  
“Erebor?” Bilbo muses wonderingly, looking up and smiling a little. Some of that puzzlement has left his eyes and he appears to be struggling to figure things out for himself. “And . . . you’re the king under the mountain, now?”  
  
“Yes, I am.” Thorin reaches out to brush the messy fringe from Bilbo’s forehead, and the hobbit blinks and smiles, and leans into his touch hesitantly, as if unsure he should. “I am the king under the mountain, and you are my  _love_  . . . my precious burglar . . . my  _dear_  Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
Bilbo shivers again, his eyes growing once more confused. “Y-you . . . you  _love me_?”  
  
Swallowing around his heart, as he has done for days, now, Thorin nods. “Yes. I have almost since the beginning. And I always will.”  
  
“Oh,” Bilbo breathes, his brow furrowing. “You shouldn’t. You deserve better than . . . someone who can’t even remember where he is—or  _who_  he is, most of the time. Better than someone who. . . .” he trails off, frowning more deeply, his eyes getting that far-away look that means he’s trying to figure out something he isn’t certain he’ll like.  
  
Or trying to  _remember_  it.  
  
There have been many such moments and many such things over the past few days . . . but none of them have been the  _worst_  memory . . . of the most vile act Bilbo Baggins has ever lived through.  _That_  memory is still buried—as is even the knowledge that such a terrible thing had happened to him—and will hopefully remain so until Lord Elrond arrives and can advise them.  
  
As it is Thorin cannot imagine what recovering such a memory would do to his love . . . though he fears it might shatter the hobbit into a thousand pieces . . . and then grind those pieces into the dirt.  
  
“Something h-happened to me,” Bilbo is saying slowly, his face a determined and miserable mask. “S-something  _bad_. . . .” his gaze focuses on Thorin again. “What happened to me, Thorin? I’m a-afraid to remember when I’m alone or when you’re asleep, and I push such thoughts out of my mind. But you're here, now. And I feel . . . clearer. Stronger. And safe with you here. Will you not tell me what happened?”  
  
Shaking his head, Thorin cups the hobbit’s face in his hands and looks into the scared but trusting eyes that stare into his own. “Master Baggins, that is a tale that must wait for another time. At least until we’ve spoken with Lord Elrond—”  
  
Bilbo’s eyes widen with desperate confusion. “Lord Elrond? B-but I thought we were in Erebor. . . .”  
  
“We are, my love. We are. But Lord Elrond is coming here, himself, to help you get well.” Thorin’s thumbs stroke Bilbo’s cheeks. “He will be here quite soon. Within the next day.”  
  
Bilbo shudders. “And I h-have to  _see_  him, don’t I?” When Thorin nods, Bilbo lets out a breath and shakes his head, more shame and chagrin reddening his face. “I know he won’t hurt me. I’ve met him before, haven’t I? And he was . . . so kind to me, wasn’t he?” When Thorin nods again, Bilbo laughs a little. “The thought of seeing anyone who isn’t you still fills me with dread. You’re the only person I can be certain won’t hurt me.”  
  
Thorin flinches. From the words and the trust that goes with them. Is it not his fault that the hobbit has come to this state of trembling near-madness? Thorin’s fault for heeding his own desires rather than curbing them until Bilbo had at least been seen by Lord Elrond?  
  
“I would never purposely hurt you,” Thorin says finally, leaning down till his forehead touches Bilbo’s. “My love and longing for you has made me . . . hasty and unwise in the past, but never again. I will protect you from any and all hurt . . . even if that hurt would come from me.”  
  
This close, Bilbo’s eyes are merely a vulnerable shine, but they are  _beautiful_. They are the eyes Thorin loves above all others.  
  
“You would never hurt me, Thorin. That much I  _do_  remember and know,” Bilbo says with a rather breath-taking certainty. And his hand comes up to cup Thorin’s cheek . . . and for a few moments, the shine of those vulnerable autumn eyes is shuttered, and trembling, cool lips brush Thorin’s own, startling him into complete immobility. By the time Bilbo sits back a little, obviously to gauge Thorin’s reaction, Thorin can only splutter.  
  
“You don’t have to—I mean, if you want to, then, yes, kiss me all you like—but don’t feel you _have to_  because we share a bed or because I’ve . . . repeatedly declared my feelings like a besotted lad barely into his first mustache. Or because I may be somehow pressuring you into—”  
  
Bilbo actually laughs, for the first time in three days—as surprising a sound as anything Thorin’s ever heard. “No one has ever wanted me so much, my king, nor will they  _ever_  want me so much that they would . . .  _pressure_  me into kissing them, or anything else! Least of all  _you_ , I should imagine!”  
  
Thorin’s eyebrows lift and he fights his own smile. Part of what makes Bilbo so beautiful is his complete lack of awareness regarding that beauty—and his refusal to accept that he  _is_  beautiful, no matter how many times he’s told. “While I would never purposely pressure you into . . . such an act, Master Baggins, your mere presence tempts me. I miss the sweetness of your lips, the scent of you on my skin, and your gentle touch.” Sighing, Thorin looks away from the curiosity in Bilbo’s eyes. “I miss these things, but I would not have them at the cost of your well-being. So I say again: fear not that I will pressure you into even the chastest kiss.”  
  
That cool hand returns to Thorin’s cheek once more, trembling slightly. “Thorin . . . h-have we . . . have we m-made love? We  _must not_  have, because even I, even  _now_  would never have forgotten  _that_!” But Bilbo’s voice quavers as if he fears that very likelihood.  
  
Mouth pursing briefly, Thorin takes a deep breath and leans into Bilbo’s touch. “We . . . have done many things, Master Baggins . . . but not yet that.”  
  
Bilbo is the one to sigh now. A disappointed sigh, or perhaps that’s merely Thorin’s wishful thinking.  
  
“I th-think I would like to,” Bilbo decides finally, and Thorin is once again startled into meeting that gaze. “Make love with you, that is. I can’t imagine why someone like  _you_  would love someone like  _me_ , but you’ve made it plain that you do. And I . . . I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.” He sighs again, his eyes taking on an extra shine Thorin recognizes all too well. “I wish . . . I wish that you’d loved me then. Before I was unwell. I wish that I’d invited you into my bed that first night, and that you’d said  _yes_. Then I would have that memory  _now_. . . .”  
  
Shuddering at this unintentional expressing of a sentiment Bilbo had had two months ago, when Thorin had first admitted his own abiding adoration, Thorin pulls Bilbo to him and holds him while he weeps, rocking them both and murmuring comforting nonsense until Bilbo looks up at him with intent, intense, wet eyes.  
  
“M-make love to me now?” he asks desperately, shakily. “I know I’m not much to look at—especially now, all tears and puffy face—and I’ve never  _been_  anyone’s lover. I shouldn’t know what to do with you once I  _have_  you, but . . . I love you. And I want you. And I  _need_  you, Thorin.”  
  
This humble plea and admission of what Thorin had already known, nonetheless floors him. Hits him like a hammer in the heart. Makes the agony of seeing his lover be consumed by madness keener . . . makes his own yearning ache for the body he holds that much more intense. But it also makes his respect for such bravery and determination that much stronger, renders his own determination to do right by it and Bilbo’s trembling innocence more firm. None of which, of course, makes turning down such a request any easier. “Bilbo, my love—”  
  
“You’re going to say  _no_ , aren’t you?” Bilbo interrupts Thorin to say, looking down with a tear-logged, rueful laugh. “Of course, you are.  _I_  would, if I were you. I wouldn’t want to be bothered with me, either.”  
  
“My love,” Thorin begins around his own unshed tears—tears of frustration and anger at himself for even now being tempted by the small, shivering form in his arms—and tilts Bilbo’s face up to his own once more. “I wish to—wish nothing more than to hold you in my arms and show you how much I want you . . . to show you how wonderful it will be if and when we become one—but I cannot. I  _will not_. Not until you are  _well_.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“It is  _my_  fault that you’ve had this setback.  _My_  hastiness, my lust. I let myself become drunk on you, and acted . . . unwisely—dishonorably. I knew you were unwell, and yet I convinced myself that it was alright—that nothing bad could come of us touching each other. As long as we didn’t take that final step, we could do whatever we wished without consequence.” Thorin snorts bitterly. “But I was wrong. And look at the cost. The terrible  _cost_.” Hanging his own head, Thorin feels traitorous wetness dripping from eyes that sting and burn.  
  
For long moments, the stinging and burning forces more wetness from eyes unused to the sensation. Bilbo, clearly shocked and alarmed, eventually wraps his arms around Thorin’s neck and holds him close, taking up the task of rocking them and murmuring his own brand of comforting nonsense. Thorin hugs the hobbit close, burying his face in the hollow between Bilbo’s neck and shoulder, inhaling the calming, gentle scent that’s become the very air he breathes over the past few days.  
  
“I  _will_  get well for you, Thorin, this I promise,” Bilbo finally murmurs, much as he had one week prior, his hands stroking and carding Thorin’s hair around the ridiculous crown. “I’ll be brave enough to see Lord Elrond and he’ll help me get well, and someday—someday  _soon_ , we’ll lay together as lovers . . . without fear and without guilt. And it will be, as you say,  _wonderful_.”  
  
“That is not the only reason I wish you to be well, Bilbo Baggins . . . so that I can make love to you without fear and guilt.” Thorin presses a tender kiss to Bilbo’s tear-wet skin. “I wish you to be well because I wish to see you thriving and happy. I wish for you to be  _whole_.”  
  
“I will be. Someday. For you, I’d be  _anything_. I’d sprout wings and fly to the moon if you wished it of me.” Bilbo chuckles, sounding a bit embarrassed to be admitting such a thing, but nonetheless sincere.  
  
Thorin laughs a little, sitting up and wiping at his wet cheeks. “Never that, Master Baggins. I would never see you wander so far from me as the moon.”  
  
Biting his lip, Bilbo smiles and blushes. “It pleases me to hear that—more than you know.” He turns his face up to Thorin’s slightly. “Will you at least give me a kiss, my lord? If you can bring yourself to, that is, for I would never pressure  _you_  for what you are not ready to give. But . . . know that I would  _never_  let go of such a memory, instead treasuring it and keeping it close by to make me brave when I’m frightened, and happy when I’m sad. And it will . . . . give me something to look forward to.”  
  
Thorin frowns, mind awhirl with reasons for and against even the simplest, briefest of kisses, as he leans in to press another tender—chaste—kiss to Bilbo’s lips. And chaste it stays, for the better part of a minute. Then Bilbo moans, and that moan parts his lips. The arms around Thorin’s neck tighten and Bilbo’s body presses against Thorin’s own drawing from the king a gasp.  
  
Then, as if the past three days had not happened, he’s slowly exploring the sweet, wet warmth of Bilbo’s mouth, his own groans sounding loud in the heavy, waiting silence that’s settled over their rooms during those three long, awful days. . . .  
  
Days that had been caused, in no small part, by moments such as this, in which Bilbo burns in his arms like a flame and Thorin can only helplessly drink down those soft, sweet moans even as he thirsts for more.  
  
 _More_ , and Thorin’s desire for it, had gotten them to this pass, and Thorin would sooner cut off his right arm than harm Bilbo like that again.  
  
“My love,” he pants, breaking the kiss and the embrace—only to be caught up in both again, briefly, when Bilbo follows him with a sigh and a murmured:  _Please_. “My love, I must go. . . .”  
  
“Don’t.” Bilbo leans his forehead against Thorin’s, breathing hard, his voice cracking with barely suppressed panic, now that the time for leaving has come upon them once more. “Stay with me. Make love to me or don’t, but . . .  _stay_  with me. Lie with me.  _Hold_  me. Please, my lord. . . .”  
  
Firming his resolve—which is weak, weak, weak, as regards any parting of ways, even for a few hours, with Master Baggins—Thorin shakes his head regretfully and tears immediately spill from Bilbo’s eyes. But he nods his understanding. Takes a deep breath and tries to smile gamely.  
  
“But you’ll come back at lunch-time?” he asks, his brow furrowing as if uncertain of the answer he’ll receive.  
  
“At lunch,” Thorin swears, only reluctantly sits back out of arms that—also only reluctantly—let him go, flustered and half-hard already. Lambent eyes watch him as he stands up and straightens his askew clothing and crooked crown. “Erebor needs running. I must get  _some_  work done before I can be free to lay with you. Though, if I had my way, I would never be anywhere but in your arms.”  
  
Bilbo swallows and nods again, looking small and very young. Thorin can’t help but reach out and caress his cheek, pleased when Bilbo leans into the touch with eyes that flutter shut and a yearning sigh.  
  
“I will return, my love,” Thorin promises gruffly, and Bilbo nods, the pink tip of his tongue coming out to swipe slightly swollen lips. The gaze that he turns on Thorin is scared, but determined, and the hobbit is already shivering. But Thorin can see the same strength that’d carried Bilbo on their quest being gathered and pulled around Bilbo like a cloak.  
  
“And I will be here, waiting for you, my king,” he whispers, kissing Thorin’s fingertips quickly, before they drift to his chin and throat . . . then away.  
  


*

  
  
Once outside his rooms, the doors swung shut behind him, Thorin takes a deep breath that shakes.  
  
“Guard him with your lives,” he says grimly to Arlen and Muir, without looking at either dwarf.  
  
“My king!” They answer simultaneously.  
  
“And should he start screaming or shouting—or showing any sign of distress, come get me. Don’t go in there to wake him or calm him . . . you’ll only frighten him more.” Now, Thorin glances at each dwarf to make certain he’s being clear. Both guards nod their understanding. “Just . . . come get me. No matter what.”  
  
“Yes, your majesty!”  
  
And with that, Thorin has to content himself. He strides off toward the morning meeting—for which he’s again late and in no mood to be presiding over—his mind and spirit still abed and curled protectively around the hobbit he loves.  
  


*

  
  
Court and petitions is packed, after three days of not having it.  
  
Thorin tries to hide his distraction and dissatisfaction, and is certain he manages to hide neither. Even Kili—who is, currently entertaining his elvish maid for a few days, and thus quite distracted  _himself_ —pays better attention to the cases and goings on than Thorin does, though that’s not saying much.  
  
Fili seems to be focused on nothing  _but_  the cases, grim and silent, but for occasional questions and observations— _serious ones_ —that actually help. And yet he, too, is distracted in his own strange way and, unlike Kili, rather unhappy about it.  
  
Thorin takes a moment to wonder if this . . . mystery lover of Fili’s is at fault. So to speak—it could merely be that Fili, having never lost his heart, is simply unused to that lovely, benighted state and handling it about as well as Thorin would expect.  
  
At any rate, Thorin experiences a brief moment of grimly musing about whom he’ll be going after with a shovel for not treating his nephew’s heart—which, though flighty, is unfailingly loyal, noble, and generous—with the care that it deserves.  
  
But then Thorin forces his mind back to the cases at hand, and so the morning passes.  
  
When lunch-time comes, the petitioners who’ve yet to be heard file out with sighs and frustration—an excited Kili right behind them, having said something about lunch with his elvish maid.  
  
Thorin and Fili watch the crowd and Kili go, then look at each other and shrug. Then Thorin stands and leads the way down the steps from the throne, Fili following behind thoughtfully.  
  
“If I may ask, Uncle . . . how is Master Baggins faring, these days?”  
  
Surprised, Thorin doesn’t have time to think about his answer before he’s given it. “His night terrors have returned—as you’ve no doubt heard,” Thorin adds ruefully. The rumor mill that is Erebor is no doubt rife with suppositions and misinformation about the madness of the king’s lover. Fili  _hmms_.  
  
“And . . . is that why Lord Elrond is coming to Erebor? To make Bilbo . . . well?” Thorin stops and Fili draws even with him, looking concerned. “You never did tell any of us why you— _you_ , of all dwarves, invited an elven lord to Erebor. It is not a state visit, nor is it ceremonial.” The younger dwarf shrugs and looks down at his boots. “I know you don’t like to talk about Master Baggins, or his . . . illness, but it’s no secret that there’s something wrong with him, with his  _mind_ , and has been for a some time. And no such healers of the mind exist in Erebor. But at least  _one_  such healer exists in Imladris. The  _best_  of such healers. And now, he’s coming to Erebor on no _specifically stated_  business.”  
  
Thorin can feel his face forming into its grimmest mask even as Fili speaks, but he does not deny what his nephew says. However he refuses to discuss, even with his  _heir_ , his lover’s illness. That is for  _Master Baggins_  to discuss, if ever he chooses to. “Master Baggins’ state of mind is none of your affair, Fili, and my reasons for inviting Lord Elrond into Erebor are . . . my own,” he says, sighing and striding toward the exit once more and Fili keeps up with him. The guards come to attention as they pass through the double doors, which then shut behind them.  
  
“I understand, Uncle,” Fili says quickly, but kindly, and with more grace and acceptance than Thorin would have expected. “It’s just that we—the fellowship, that is—are concerned for him. Especially B-bofur. And I wish to set his heart and mind at ease. He still worries after Master Baggins.”  
  
Thorin grunts. “You may tell the fellowship that Master Baggins is unwell, but that his illness is being addressed,” he says curtly, almost unwillingly, and senses Fili’s nod. And so, he’s almost half-way to the royal wing, his rooms, and Bilbo, when he picks up on something Fili had let slip, intentionally or not, and stops dead in his tracks, whirling on his nephew who’s smiling a little. It’s a wary, anxious, slightly uncomfortable smile—the kind one never sees on _Fili’s_ confident face.  
  
“ _Bofur_?” Thorin demands, an incredulous laugh warring with a completely credulous groan, and coming out as a strange, choked hiccough. Fili’s smile firms and for a moment, laughter dances in his eyes, before being edged out, once more, by anxious wariness.  
  
“Yes. Bofur.”  
  
Thorin . . . doesn’t even know where to begin. And clearly sensing this, Fili shrugs again, blushing. “We’re still not . . . official in any way. There’s nothing to announce. We’re just . . . keeping company, and seeing how that suits us. So far, it seems to suit us just fine.” That blush deepens and Thorin lets out a breath, shaking his head.  
  
“Fili . . . two months ago, he was seeking to court another,” he says lowly, putting a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and squeezing it. “His heart may  _yet_  be taken.”  
  
“Oh, I  _know_  it is,” Fili says, his smile turning a bit sad, a bit wry. “And it may be a long while before his heart is free, if ever . . . but I have time to wait. And he’s . . .  _worth waiting for_.”  
  
Thorin searches Fili’s blue eyes for a long time before sighing and shaking his head again. He squeezes his nephew’s shoulder once more then lets go.  
  
“Just remember,” he says firmly, holding Fili’s unusually uncertain gaze. “You are a prince of Erebor, my heir, and heir of Durin, himself. You are second to  _no one_ , and must come second to no one in the heart to which you would entrust yours.”  
  
Fili takes a breath and nods once, his shoulders squaring. “I’ll remember that, Uncle.”  
  
“See that you do.”  
  


*

  
  
Once in his rooms, Thorin sheds robe, crown, and tunic before he even reaches their bedchamber. At the closed doors, he steels himself for what might be on the other side before opening them. . . .  
  
Bilbo, dressed only in one of Thorin’s old tunics, is sitting tailor-style in front of the fire—which the hobbit had obviously taken the initiative of stoking up, himself, and Thorin takes  _that_  as a good sign—staring into it as one mesmerized, a half-smile on his face.  
  
Kicking off his boots, Thorin quietly joins his lover at the hearth, sitting next to him, also tailor-style. The heat coming from the fire is rather alarming, enough to make Thorin, in just his breeches and undershirt break into a light sweat, but Bilbo seems for the first time in days, comfortable, neither shivering nor shaking.  
  
So they sit, staring into the fire, Thorin almost desperate to see what put that little smile on his love’s face. So keenly is he searching the flames that he lets slip a startled grunt when Bilbo’s hand settles companionably on his own.  
  
“We’re still in Erebor, my lord?”  
  
“Yes, my love.”  
  
“Good.” When Thorin glances away from the fire, that small smile has grown, and it’s now aimed at him, accompanied by a fond, if somewhat absent gaze. “I’m glad we’re in Erebor. Glad that the adventure is  _over_ , now. I’m so tired. . . .”  
  
“I know, my love.”  _If only your mind would let you rest_. . . .  
  
“Will you . . . will you hold me?”  
  
Hope is kindled in those trusting eyes and Thorin’s own smile shines out. “For as long as you like.”  
  
Bilbo immediately scoots closer, under Thorin’s arm, tucking his head under Thorin’s chin with a relieved sigh. Thorin squeezes Bilbo close and tight, kissing his hair. Bilbo’s hand comes up to rest over Thorin’s elevated heart beat.  
  
“Your heart races,” Bilbo muses, and not for the first time. And Thorin’s heart beats even faster in rememberance and yearning for times so recently past.  
  
“It races—it  _beats_ —because of you. It  _belongs_  to you.”  
  
Bilbo pets the spot over Thorin’s heart as if trying to gentle it and Thorin chuckles.  
  
“My heart beats so simply because it is  _happy_  . . . happy to be with you, once more.”  
  
“As does mine, my lord.” Bilbo relinquishes his spot over Thorin’s heart to take Thorin’s hand, which he pulls to his own chest. The beat there is quick. Quicker, perhaps, than mere happiness would warrant—no doubt some of that speed is born of lingering fear at being alone for so many hours—yet Thorin can’t help but be pleased, nonetheless.  
  
Closing his hand around Bilbo’s, he pulls the small, cool hand up to his mouth for a kiss that lasts longer than he means it to. As do all kisses he bestows upon Bilbo Baggins. It lasts until Bilbo cups Thorin’s cheek lightly and turns Thorin’s face toward his own. Bilbo’s eyes are wide and dilated.  
  
“I remember this morning . . . when you kissed me,” he says softly. “Whenever I start to get confused, I make myself remember and hold onto that kiss, and it . . . grounds me. And warms me. It makes me brave.” He leans up to brush Thorin’s lips so, so lightly with his own. “Thank you, Thorin. For helping me to be brave.”  
  
“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, pressing the hobbit’s lips with his own. “You were and are  _already_ brave, my love. The bravest person I have  _ever_  known. It’s just that sometimes, you need a little reminding.”  
  
“Then remind me again,” Bilbo whispers breathlessly, his arms winding around Thorin’s neck as Thorin kisses him in earnest. Kisses him and kisses him, holding him tight.  
  
Thus, Thorin doesn’t hear the knocking—or the arguing—going on outside the doors to his rooms. Nor does he hear when the arguing ends and the doors open then close. What he  _does_ hear is the knock on the door to the  _bedchamber_. And he of course feels Bilbo’s bestartlement and immediate tensing in his arms.  
  
“It’s alright,” Thorin says quietly, trying to slow his own breathing and calm the unruly desire that’s once again threatening to overwhelm his reason. He caresses Bilbo’s cheek and gazes steadily, reassuringly into wide, frightened eyes. “It’s probably Arlen or Muir. They wouldn’t come into our rooms unless it was something important. And  _never_  would they come into our bedchamber unless it was . . .  _dire_.”  
  
Swallowing, Bilbo nods, and lets Thorin pull him to his feet, hands clenching in Thorin’s undershirt when Thorin lays a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Go lay down, my love, and I’ll take care of whatever it is.”  
  
Nodding once more, Bilbo tries to smile and mostly succeeds, before turning to pad over to their bed on noiseless feet. Thorin watches him go—waits till the hobbit is tucked in under sheets and the blanket—to go answer the door.  
  
He expects to see Arlen or Muir waiting on him, but instead finds Balin, who bows low, but not before Thorin sees an excited and relieved smile on his face.  
  
“He’s here, my king,” the older dwarf says, straightening up. That smile stretches into a grin and he claps Thorin’s shoulder soundly. “He’s  _here_.”  
  
Heart racing once more, Thorin doesn’t even have to ask  _whom_.  
  
“I’ll be dressed and ready to receive him the West Meeting Chamber in fifteen—no, ten minutes.”  
  
“Aye, my king.” Balin’s already taking himself off before Thorin closes the doors. He turns toward the bed and its worried occupant, his heart ready to burst into flight, a triumphant smile on his face.  
  
“Is . . . is everything alright, Thorin?” Bilbo asks when Thorin approaches the bed and sits on the edge. He takes Bilbo’s hand and kisses it repeatedly. Till Bilbo is smiling bemusedly and blushing, his free hand coming up to brush Thorin’s hair back over his shoulder. “You’re very silly, for a king, you know.”  
  
“And you’re very serious for a hobbit,” Thorin returns, grinning and pulling Bilbo into his arms. The hobbit goes happily, with another soft sigh, embracing as tightly as he is embraced. “Listen, I must ask a favor of you, my love. One that requires your strength and bravery.”  
  
“Anything, Thorin . . . I’ll try my best to do it.”  
  
Thorin sits back a little to look into Bilbo’s anxious but once more determined eyes.  
  
 _I love you,_  he thinks with a yearning that’s as desperate as it is deep.  _I fear nothing in this life but the loss of you, and before I’ve even had you. I pray only that your strength and bravery, and my love are enough to carry you through this. I wish only for you to have the chance to be whole and happy. No one deserves it more._  
  
“I must ask you to come with me—leave these rooms for a little while. We won’t be going far,” Thorin promises when Bilbo’s eyes take on that panicked shine. He steals a quick kiss. “Not far, at all. To the West Meeting Chamber, only.”  
  
“Wh-why?” Bilbo asks as Thorin stands up, once again pulling the hobbit with him, then pulling him close. He leans down till their foreheads touch, and that bright, panicked shine is all he can see of his love’s wide eyes. He squeezes the hobbit tight against him.  
  
“To see Lord Elrond, Bilbo. He is here, and it is time.  _Time for you to get well._ ”


	7. Dawn of a New Age 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Elrond has arrived. His arrival acts as a . . . catalyst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Considering my writer’s blocked second novel, if these characters were mine, I probably would not be able to write about them. And with such regularity.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“Ready?”  
  
Bilbo, wide-eyed and clearly wanting to bolt back into their bedchamber, nods once, smiling gamely when Thorin squeezes his hand then raises it to his lips for a lingering kiss.  
  
“Remember, Master Baggins: you are brave and strong, and that is why, among many other reasons, I love you,” Thorin breathes, meeting that anxious, but determined gaze. Bilbo nods again, his game smile widening just a bit.  
  
“I love you, too, my king. And for you, I’ll continue to be as brave and as strong as I may.” Bilbo takes a deep breath and lets it out before taking a step toward the doors to their chambers. And another. And another, tugging a surprised Thorin with him. Thorin feels a sudden swell of pride lift his spirits and move his heart.  
  
 _My brave hobbit . . . braver and stronger than you’ll ever know. . . ._  
  
When they get to the doors, Thorin steps ahead of Bilbo to open them then leads them out into the halls of the royal wing. Bilbo, whose breathing has turned light and quick, follows silently, but without hesitation.  
  


*

  
  
The halls of the royal wing are never busy, per say, but they certainly see more traffic than the confines of Thorin’s bedchambers, and Bilbo is still wide-eyed as they walk along, both hands clutching at Thorin’s as he tries to look in every direction at once.  
  
They pass and are passed, on the way to the West Meeting Chamber, by several servants, who bow deeply to their king and his companion. Thorin nods back, surprised yet again when Bilbo smiles nervously and waves to the servants as they pass.  
  
But the West Meeting Chamber is the closest meeting chamber in the royal wing to Thorin’s rooms, and sooner, rather than later, and without incident, they’ve arrived outside the tall doors to the chamber, outside of which stand two more of Thorin’s personal guard, as well as Balin and Fili.  
  
“Here we are, my love,” Thorin says gently as they draw near and Bilbo crowds closer to Thorin, the grip of his hands growing panicky-tight. “You remember Balin and Fili, don’t you?”  
  
“Y-yes.” Bilbo looks up at Thorin, swallowing. “They were members of the fellowship. They were . . . k-kind to me, also. Especially Balin. . . .” now, the hobbit almost smiles. “And Fili and his brother used to play tricks on me.”  
  
“Er, yes,” Thorin replies delicately, remembering that time, at the beginning of their quest for Erebor and the Arkenstone, Fili and Kili had tried to scare Bilbo by telling him about “throat-cutter” orcs peopling the hills in which they’d been camped for the night. “My nephews can be foolish, but they are harmless, and only wish you well. As does Balin. As does Lord Elrond.”  
  
Nodding, Bilbo takes another deep breath as they get to within speaking distance with Balin and Fili, who’re wearing ceremonial tunics and robes similar to Thorin’s, though minus the crown. Bilbo is dressed in his nicest brown suit, minus the traditional golden coronet Thorin would see on his head . . . but that will have to wait until their wedding day. A day which, despite Bilbo’s setbacks, Thorin is hopeful will happen in their future.  
  
“My king,” Balin and Fili say, both at once, bowing low in tandem. Then they’re bowing to Bilbo, as well, who blinks in surprise. “Master Baggins.”  
  
“Hullo, Balin. And Fili.” Bilbo says with only slightly shaky graciousness, bowing back to them. Balin smiles encouragingly.  
  
“You’re looking well, lad,” he says gently, and Bilbo’s smile turns wry.  
  
“That’s certainly kind of you to say,” he replies with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “But I fear that after months of no sun, I’ve gained quite a pallor. You, however, are looking quite hale and prosperous. As are you, Master Fili.”  
  
“Thank you, Master Baggins.” Fili bows again. When he straightens, his gaze is somber, but kind. “It is good to see you again.”  
  
Blushing, Bilbo laughs again. “I must say, I feel rather naked without a big silver tray.”  
  
Fili laughs, too. “Court and petitions is certainly less fun without you and your magnificent lunches to look forward to.”  
  
“Indeed,” Thorin says, squeezing Bilbo’s hand. “Perhaps in the future we might be able to resume that state of affairs.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Bilbo agrees, but uncertainly. No doubt he’s thinking of all the strangers he’d have to wade through to get to Thorin, Fili, and Kili. And never mind all the people he’d have to make his way through to procure lunch to begin with.  
  
Thorin sighs, and reminds himself:  _One step at a time, one day at a time_. Then he raises Bilbo’s hand to his lips briefly. “Enough of pleasantries, yes? It is time to welcome our guest before he thinks we’ve forgotten him.”  
  
“Yes,” Bilbo agrees, clearly steeling himself for that welcome. Balin and Fili nod and, after Thorin leads Bilbo up to the doors of the meeting chamber, take their places behind them. And technically, Bilbo should be behind  _Balin and Fili_  being, in the traditional hierarchy, something more than a concubine but less than a spouse. But Thorin will have his love  _by his side_ , tradition and protocol be damned.  
  
The guards open the doors to the meeting chamber and, hand in hand, Thorin and Bilbo enter the chamber, Balin and Fili following at a discreet distance.  
  


*

  
  
“King Thorin.”  
  
With this simple greeting, Lord Elrond and his rather small retinue of two other elves—all three dressed in mail armor and grey cloaks—bow deeply. Lord Elrond’s clear, dark eyes meet Thorin’s squarely, before drifting to Bilbo, who is attempting to smile as he bows back when Thorin does. He bears up under that frank, curious gaze well, and Thorin is once again proud of his lover.  
  
“Lord Elrond. Welcome to Erebor,” Thorin begins solemnly, recalling himself to the matters at hand. “We are honored by your presence, and humbled. And despite the state of continuing repairs to our kingdom, hope that our hospitality is indeed worthy of you.”  
  
The elven lord’s gaze ticks over to Thorin’s once more. “Indeed, the repairs that have already been made in so short a time are astonishing. The industriousness of your people is to be commended.”  
  
Drawing himself up proudly, Thorin nods. “We dwarves take pride in our homes . . . as do, I recall from our brief sojourn in Imladris, elves. Something our peoples have in common.”  
  
“Indeed,” Lord Elrond agrees, seeming mildly amused at Thorin’s attempt at diplomacy and charm. Thorin’s own ironic smile curves his mouth, winning out over the temptation of a glower at what he once, not that long ago, would have taken as condescension.  
  
“Will you join us at table for refreshment, after your long journey—we were just about to sit down to lunch when you arrived,” Thorin says, gesturing at the large, marble table in the center of the chamber, around which run marble benches. This particular table had been designed with the needs of the taller races in mind—that and its closeness to Thorin’s own chambers was why Thorin had chosen it—though there are amenties that make accessing the tall benches easier for a dwarf. Or a hobbit.  
  
Glancing at Bilbo once more, Lord Elrond smiles a tad wearily. “King Thorin, I thank you for your offer, but I must ask that my traveling companions and I be given leave to rest and bathe after our journey, and to join you, instead, for dinner? The road to Erebor has been long, indeed, and I fear that I am not at my best when fresh off the road.”  
  
“Ah, yes.” Thorin knows from experience just how long that road can be and what it can do to one’s sense of diplomacy. He recalls clearly his own pride and rudeness in dealing with this particular elven lord, not so terribly long ago.  
  
 _It’s really a wonder that he came at all . . . but then, he did not come here for_ me _. He came here for Bilbo Baggins. That he holds my admittedly remarkable hobbit in such high esteem is . . . encouraging._  
  
This time, when Thorin smiles, it’s a genuine one, and Lord Elrond returns it with equal sincerity. “Of course, my lord. Balin, my second, will escort you to your chambers—” a glance back at Balin shows the other dwarf to be nodding his agreement. Thorin can only bless Balin’s quickness and foresight at having rooms set aside and prepared for their guests. “And we will see you in the royal dining chamber at dinner, which is usually eaten around seven, if that suits you.”  
  
“That suits us perfectly, King Thorin,” Lord Elrond bows again, easily, despite his armor, and _silently_. Then he’s turning to regard Bilbo with a smile that welcomes the hobbit to smile back. And when Bilbo does, it’s neither shaky nor game, but the full, wide smile that makes Thorin’s heart skip beats. “And you, Master Baggins . . . I hope to see you at dinner, as well. . . ?”  
  
Flushing and seeming pleased, Bilbo bows and bobs back up. “C-certainly, Lord Elrond! I wouldn’t miss it for anything!”  
  
“That is well, then.” Lord Elrond glances at his companions, who pick up green and grey packs and saddlebags that no doubt carry several changes of fancy elven robes then back at Thorin. “By your leave, King Thorin, we will take that rest, now.”  
  
“Of course—Balin, Fili, please show Lord Elrond and his companions to their rooms.”  
  
“Aye, my king.” With a bow of his own, Balin gestures for Lord Elrond and his company to precede him, once Thorin steps aside. “It’s this way, my lord.”  
  
“And Fili will be by at a quarter of seven to escort you to the dining chamber,” Thorin says as the elves walk past him—the companions with gracious bows to him and Bilbo.  
  
“My thanks, again, King Thorin, for your kind hospitality.”  
  
“It is my pleasure, Lord Elrond.” Thorin squeezes Bilbo’s hand and Bilbo squeezes back. “If there’s any way we can make your stay here more comfortable, you have only to let us know.”  
  


*

  
  
“Well, my love . . . what did you think?”  
  
Bilbo’s been silent since they left the meeting chamber, distracted and oddly enough, not anxious as they walk back to their chambers.  
  
“Well,” he says now, in response to Thorin. “He’s still as kind as I  _think_  I remember.” A wry chuckle. “And he has a sense of humor. I like that.”  
  
Thorin finds himself smiling. Bilbo  _does_  tend to prize a sense of humor in the people he likes—which makes it indeed strange that he’s always been drawn to Thorin who, it is widely-known, and even to himself, has practically none.  
  
“Hmm . . .  _I_  appreciate that he was to the point and didn’t beat around the bush as so many elves do. In the days when Thranduil used to pay us visits, he could never come to a point without dancing around it for hours.” Thorin snorts. “It was bloody exhausting just holding a simple conversation with him.”  
  
“Then it’s a good thing for us Lord Elrond is  _not_  Thranduil,” Bilbo says, looking up at Thorin pointedly, and Thorin sighs. But he’s smiling, too.  
  
“That much is apparent. Thranduil would never have raised a hand to help me or mine, let alone journey so far from the safety of his lands on behalf of someone  _I_  love.” Sighing again as they draw within sight of their chambers, and the guards who open the doors, Thorin laughs quite suddenly. “As elven lords go, Lord Elrond is . . . quite tolerable.”  
  
“Mm, damned by faint praise,” Bilbo notes with plain amusement, leaning against Thorin briefly, as they pass Arlen and Muir, who come to attention. Then the doors to their chambers are shutting behind Thorin and Bilbo and the latter lets out a relieved breath. Thorin shrugs off his robe and deposits the crown on an end table.  
  
When they reach their bedchamber, Thorin is quick to pull Bilbo into his arms for a brief kiss and a long embrace.  
  
“And how are  _you_ , my love? You seem . . . clearer and steadier than you did even just an hour ago.” Thorin leans back to look down into Bilbo’s eyes and see what’s there to be seen. Bilbo gazes up at him rather happily, his lovely lips curved in a small smile.  
  
“I’m . . . a bit shaken. It wasn’t easy, being around so many people in an unfamiliar place,” he admits quietly, with a naked honesty that Thorin finds admirable and humbling. “But I feel better for having done it. Having  _made_  myself do it. It sounds silly, I know, but I feel as if I’ve accomplished something significant.”  
  
“You have, Master Baggins. Believe me, you have.” Thorin reaches up to brush his fingers across Bilbo’s smooth cheek. “You were gracious and charming under fire. Despite everything, you were . . . magnificent. And so very brave. I’ve never been more proud to have you by my side.” _And one day, you will be even more magnificent. You’ll be_ well _, and you'll stand by my side, as my_ consort _, and together, we’ll face the_ world.  
  
Bilbo blushes, almost as if he can hear Thorin’s thoughts, and his arms wind around Thorin’s neck and he bounces up on his toes so that they are, more or less, eye to eye. He searches Thorin’s gaze wonderingly, his smile growing wider as moments pass, until finally he sighs and leans in to kiss Thorin, who obligingly kisses him back.  
  
“I dunno about magnificent, but I’m only  _brave_  because of you,” Bilbo breathes on his lips between kisses, even as Thorin busies himself with sucking the unique, neverending sweetness from  _Bilbo’s_  lips, causing Bilbo to laugh. “Oh, Thorin. . . .”  
  
“I love you, Master Baggins. So much that I have neither the words nor wit to express my love in terms that would be worthy of you,” Thorin whispers, leaning their foreheads together as they catch their breaths. “Never doubt that I adore you. Never doubt that I would do  _anything_  for you.”  
  
“I don’t.” Bilbo’s eyes shine up into Thorin’s, not in panic, but with raw yearning that finds an answer in Thorin’s heart. “I doubt so many things, even my own sanity and memory . . . my own _perception_  . . . but never  _that_ , Thorin. Never  _you_.”  
  
Thorin hugs the hobbit close and tight for long moments before swinging him up into his arms and carrying him toward their bed. Once there, he kisses Bilbo tenderly, but briefly, before laying him down with care. It is only hesitantly that Bilbo’s arms slide from around Thorin’s neck, and his eyes still shine with that unhidden yearning.  
  
“I remember,” Bilbo begins softly, turning crimson. “I remember you would ravish me with your eyes.”  
  
Blushing himself, Thorin bows low. “I . . . was more forward than was wise, Master Baggins.”  
  
“Perhaps. But you made me feel beautiful, my lord, and no one has ever made me feel beautiful.” Bilbo’s gaze is intent and measuring when Thorin meets it again. “You made me feel so wanted and loved and needed. It quite took my breath away.”  
  
Thorin smiles hopefully. “I wish you to feel that way all the time, whether or not I’m . . . being forward with my eyes. Because I  _do_  want you, and love you, and  _need_  you.”  
  
Bilbo shivers and smiles the same smile that Lord Elrond had been lucky enough to receive, wide and lovely and almost carefree. “You have me. Whenever, however you wish,” Bilbo says huskily, leaning back on his elbows in a surely unconsciously tempting pose. Thorin swallows and forces himself to neither look away, nor engage in the aforementioned ravishment.   
  
“I will . . . send for lunch,” he says lamely then quickly glances away from the hurt and disappointment in Bilbo’s eyes. “You need to keep up your strength.”  
  
Sighing again, a frustrated sound that also finds an answer in Thorin’s heart and his body, Bilbo says nothing for nearly a minute. Indeed, Thorin is stalking toward the door, kicking himself for his clumsy handling of his burglar’s heart, when Bilbo sighs again.  
  
“I’m not hungry, my lord,” he says simply, dejectedly. Then: “At least not for food . . . I wish you would touch me, as you once did. Or let me touch  _you_.”  
  
Shocked into pausing near the open doors, Thorin looks back at Bilbo, recalling the last time Bilbo had said those words . . . had it only been one week ago?  
  
“Bilbo, love . . . what do you remember, now?” he asks haltingly, hopefully. Bilbo’s smile, when it comes, is melancholy and wry.  
  
“I remember how it feels to hold you in my arms when you come . . . and the way the muscles in your thighs tense when I suck you . . . and the way you taste when you  _do come_.” That smile wavers, and Bilbo looks away, fingers finding the edges of the sheets to pick at them. “I also remember why I’m . . . unwell.”  
  
Hopes risen then summarily dashed, Thorin takes a few steps back into their bedchamber, himself shaking for once, out of sudden, stark fear for his lover's sanity. “You . . . remember what Azog did to you?”  
  
Bilbo snorts ruefully. “Thankfully, no. But I remember waking up to you and Gandalf leaning over me, and trying to find a way to tell me what Azog had done. I remember . . . Gandalf reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder and feeling as if I’d scream or vomit or both. I remember . . . you wept when you told me that I’d been . . . violated. And . . . I reached out and wiped your tears away. And I did  _not_  want to scream or vomit. I wanted nothing more than to keep touching you, even then.”  
  
Lookin down at his restless fingers, Bilbo laughs a little. “So you see, Thorin, whatever it is that sets me back, it is  _not_  your touch. Fear not that it is. What sets me back is  _my own mind_. My own fear of that which I’ve forgotten. My fear that those memories will destroy the lovely, wanton, beautiful feelings you inspire in me. I fear that once I remember, if I am even capable of doing so, I won’t be able to bear  _anyone’s_  touch. Even yours. So please understand that when I ask you to make love to me now, it’s not just because I want you, but because I want to have you while I’m still capable of  _enjoying_  you. Just in case—” but Bilbo doesn’t finish, shaking his head and blinking back tears that nonetheless fall on the sheets and his agitated fingers.  
  
In a matter of moments, Thorin has crossed the room once more, to sit at Bilbo’s side and take the shaking hobbit into his arms.  
  
“I’m so afraid, Thorin,” he whispers, his breath humid and heavy on Thorin’s neck. “So afraid that the only joy left to me will be taken away if I remember. If I thought you would, I’d ask you to send Lord Elrond away with our sincerest apologies. I’ve no wish to remember,  _full-stop_. Let alone if doing so will complete what Azog started when he touched me.”  
  
“My love . . . my love, it will  _not_ ,” Thorin murmurs into Bilbo’s soft hair, kissing it repeatedly.  
  
“Can you promise me that, Thorin?” Bilbo looks up at him with reddened, streaming eyes. “Can you promise that once I remember, I’ll still want to touch you and have you touch me? That I’ll still desire you, and yearn above all else to finally feel you inside me, as I yearn  _right now_? Can you  _promise_?”  
  
And Thorin wants to. Wants to swear by Durin that Bilbo will continue to feel these things—the same things Thorin has been feeling for well over a year, and has been nearly driven mad by, himself.  
  
He wants to . . . but he cannot. It is not in him to lie, and never has been. Not even when it comes to sparing those he loves.  
  
“I cannot promise you that, Master Baggins,” he says regretfully, guiltily, and Bilbo laughs, hiding his face again.  
  
“Of course you can’t. No one can. Not even Lord Elrond, I’ll wager. I’m like a broken ewer: even if I can be glued back together, there’s no mending me—not truly. I’ll never hold water like I used to. And the cracks will always be there, for everyone to see. It’ll always be obvious to everyone who sees me that I was once broken.” Bilbo sighs and Thorin squeezes him even tighter.  
  
“You are no mere ewer, Bilbo Baggins,” he insists firmly. “You are . . . a diamond, perfect and precious. You are an iron sword that has been broken, yes, but one that will be  _reforged_ , and because of that—because you’ll have survived a crucible few can even imagine—you will be stronger than you ever were. You will be  _steel_  . . . unbreakable and gleaming.”  
  
Bilbo’s giggle is water-logged and miserable. “Leave it to a dwarf to think of his lover in terms of weapons and jewels. Oh, Thorin . . . I love you, but I am  _neither sword nor gem_. Neither useful nor beautiful, mighty nor precious.”  
  
“You are  _all_  those things, Master Baggins. All those things, and more,” Thorin swears, blinking away his own tears. “You are my love, and to me, you are  _everything_  that is brave and noble and good.”  
  
Bilbo’s hand comes up to Thorin’s cheek, cupping it tenderly before tilting Thorin’s face down to his own. Solemn, swollen eyes await his gaze, and Thorin meets them squarely, sighing when Bilbo sits up to kiss the corner of his mouth then his lips full on.  
  
“You make heart over-full, my lord. Make me feel as if I cannot contain myself or my love for you. As if, like an ewer under a waterfall, I’ll overflow. As if . . . oh, I haven’t even the words for how you make me feel. I’m no poet,” Bilbo adds with another laugh, this one less miserable than the last. And his lips, as they move from Thorin’s, down to his throat, interspersing kisses with licks and love-bites, are anything but miserable. They are . . . divine, and Thorin moans low in the throat Bilbo is currently mapping.  
  
A small, but bold hand settles on Thorin’s thigh for a moment, before sliding up breeches and under tunic—and scrambling beneath waistband—to grasp him possessively. Bilbo’s hand is cool and soft on Thorin’s hot, seemingly instantaneously hard flesh.  
  
“Bilbo!” Thorin gasps out, resting his head momentarily on Bilbo’s crown, letting fragrant hair tickle his face. “My love—”  
  
“Hush, my king,” Bilbo murmurs, not without a tinge of irony, his hand keeping up a sustained stroke even as he leaves mark after mark on Thorin’s throat and neck. “It’s alright.”  
  
“No, it’s not—I swore I would  _never_  let  _anyone_ , even myself, hurt you again—”  
  
“And you’re  _not_.” Bilbo’s looks up into his eyes, his own heated and intense. “I promise, you’re not, Thorin. You’re . . . giving me something I need. Something that will only make me stronger and happier. Something that will give me  _hope_  for the future.”  
  
“Bilbo—” Thorin’s reasons against doing this very thing—against  _touching_  each other so freely—are being battered into nothing under the onslaught of Bilbo’s tight grasp, and the desire and fire in his lovely eyes. Battered and beaten down, until Thorin bows his head, his mind empty and his heart full as Bilbo captures his lips again, his own as sweet and soft as ever they are.  
  
When Thorin gingerly places his slightly shaking hand between Bilbo’s legs, he finds a hardness there that matches his own. And Bilbo makes such a wanton moan, thrusting up into Thorin’s hand. . . .  
  
“Yes,” he breathes into Thorin’s mouth. “Don’t stop.”  
  
“I  _should_  stop . . . this is wrong, love. . . .”  
  
“No, it’s not. It’s the only thing that feels  _right_  to me, anymore. And I’ve been waiting for so long, Thorin . . . please, don’t make me wait any longer.” Bilbo’s gazing into his eyes again, so close that his own are only a desperate shine. “Make love to me.  _Right now_. Not just because I fear losing my enjoyment of such an act . . . but because  _I want you to_. I  _want_  you, Thorin. So much that I can barely think beyond my own desires.”  
  
“Which is why we should not be doing this  _now_ , love.” Thorin tries to reason with Bilbo—reason with  _himself_. But Bilbo merely chuckles and kisses him again, short and sweet.  
  
“It was you, was it not, that said that when the time was right, I wouldn’t have to try? That I had to want to to the point of distraction, and  _need to_  above  _all else_?” Bilbo moans again as Thorin squeezes him gently, his own hand on Thorin tightening and slowing slightly, his thumb swiping across the wet head of Thorin’s prick. “Well, I  _do_. I do.  
  
“Make love to me,  _now_ , Thorin.”  
  
Thorin closes his eyes for several minutes, simply touching and letting himself be touched, his mind doing its best to rally and reason, even as it knows it’s already been defeated. Even as Bilbo’s overwhelming kisses become more smiles and heavy breathing than kisses.  
  
“Yes,” Thorin says finally, lowly, opening his eyes and looking into Bilbo’s as the hobbit sits back to gaze at him in wide-eyed surprise. Thorin finds himself smiling as he deliberately toes off his boots . . . a smile that is immediately returned. “Yes, I  _will_  make love to you, Bilbo Baggins. It would be my honor and  _delight_  to do so.”  
  
“Oh!” Bilbo blinks quickly, but a few tears escape his eyes, nonetheless. “Oh, Thorin!”  
  
He launches himself into Thorin’s arms, holding him tight, and laughing when Thorin does the same. Slowly, their embrace becomes a clinch and kisses that see them prone on their bed, Bilbo pressed down into the mattress by Thorin’s weight and controlled thrusts down against and alongside his undiminished erection. Soon, Bilbo’s arching up as best he can against Thorin’s solid body, his thighs bracketing Thorin’s as he murmurs between kisses:  _My lord, oh . . . my lord. . . ._  
  
“I love you . . . never forget that I love you,” Thorin mumbles urgently as he braces himself up on one arm and with his other hand, undoes the fly of Bilbo’s trousers. He even manages to do so without popping more than two small buttons. Then he’s sitting up and back on his heels to remove Bilbo’s trousers carefully—despite the strong and primitive urge to  _rip_  them off—as Bilbo laughs and kicks a little to help get them off his legs. Then Bilbo’s wriggling out of his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them in the general direction of the guarderobe. Both he and Thorin fumble with the buttons of his shirt, Thorin starting from the bottom and Bilbo from the top. Their hands meet in the middle and the shirt soon goes sailing off in the same direction as jacket and waistcoat.  
  
Not stopping to watch it go, Bilbo starts tugging at Thorin’s tunic. “Off-off-off,” he chants playfully, and Thorin grins, shedding the garment and dropping it over the side of the bed before doing the same with his undershirt. Bilbo doesn’t even wait for Thorin’s arms to be free of the undershirt before he’s easing down Thorin’s breeches, eyes wide with anticipation. He lets out a soft, yearning sigh as Thorin is bared to the air—hard, red, and weeping, standing out from a nest of thick dark hair—then looks up into Thorin’s eyes.  
  
“We can stop, if you wish,” Thorin says, reaching up to brush Bilbo’s cheek tenderly, reassuringly. Bilbo leans into the touch, still smiling. “Even now, we can stop, my love.”  
  
“Don’t you  _dare_  stop,” Bilbo says breathily, laying back down, and opening his arms and legs. Still doubtful, Thorin lays in them carefully, resting his weight on Bilbo's smaller body and kissing the lips that meet his own. “Don’t stop.”  
  
And at this soft, pleading command, Thorin at last throws over his doubts and restraint, taking Bilbo’s lips in a kiss as demanding as it is deep. He thrusts his prick against Bilbo’s till the hobbit cries out into their kiss, then pushes one of Bilbo’s legs out further, and his own prick nudging down past bollocks, to that sensitive strip of skin behind them, the one that’d made Bilbo come so hard three day prior.  
  
Now, Bilbo shakes and shudders, his arms wrapped so tight around Thorin’s neck, Thorin can barely breathe, and this is  _perfect_. Absolutely  _perfect_. So lost in Bilbo is Thorin that he barely remembers the small phial of oil he keeps in his night table for just such an occasion—though _this_  sort of occasion has not sprung up since well before Erebor was retaken.  
  
“Show me what to do, my king,” Bilbo pants, when Thorin lets him up for air. His eyes are dilated and shining. “Show me how to please you.”  
  
Thorin steals another kiss that means to be quick, but is not, in the end. “Everything you  _are_ pleases me, Bilbo Baggins. Now, let  _me_ , please  _you_.” He sits up and on his heels once more, removing the stopper from the phial and coating his fingers in oil that smells of some flower or other. As he does so, he gazes longingly on his lover, at the skin like fresh cream in the few places it isn’t flushed a rosy, lovely pink; at the fair, comely face and well-formed limbs that even now welcome Thorin and urge him closer; and at the beautiful, worshipful eyes that make him feel like more of a king than even ruling Erebor does.  
  
Bilbo watches him with those beautiful eyes, which have gone wide once more, then nods, swallowing. His prick, pretty and flushed, is as hard as Thorin’s and bobs in the air till Thorin takes it in his slippery hand. The hobbit arches up into his touch, eyes squinching shut as Thorin strokes him . . . then fondles his bollocks . . . then pushes his oily fingers further back, along that strip of skin . . . then further back still, aided by Bilbo, who spreads his legs even wider, pulling the left one up in the air, then tight to his chest to give further access.  
  
Thorin’s momentum is halted by this view of his lover, so vulnerable and needy, urging him on with moans and hissed  _yes_ es. By the sight of the tiny pink pucker that awaits the first brush of his thick finger. . . .  
  
Thorin understandably, quite powerfully,  _wants_  . . . more than he ever has before. He wants so much that the frustration of not already  _having_  brings tears to his eyes . . . and yet. . . .  
  
And yet.  
  
After a minute of sitting there, head hanging, eyes closed, his finger still poised just near Bilbo’s entrance, Thorin opens his eyes to see Bilbo watching him worriedly.  
  
“Thorin? What is it? Is something wrong? Am I not—” he begins, quietly stricken, but stopping himself as if he already knows what Thorin will say. Which makes one of them, for even up to the moment Thorin opens his mouth to speak, he has no idea what will come out.  
  
“I am . . . sorry, Master Baggins. But I cannot,” falls from Thorin's numb lips. "I cannot."  
  
And with that, he lets go of Bilbo and turns away from the tear-filled, disbelieving eyes that he can no longer meet. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sitting there, still hard and more confused than he’s ever been in his life, buries his face in his hands.


	8. Dawn of a New Age 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t usually use song lyrics to describe the tone of a fic/chapter/whatever, but . . . "I don’t wanna feel no more/ It’s easier to keep falling/ Imitations are pale/ Emptiness all tomorrows/ Haunted by your ghost/ Lay down, black gives way to blue . . . lay down, I’ll remember you/ Fading out by design/ Consciously avoiding changes/ Curtains drawn, now, it’s done/ Silencing all tomorrows/ Forcing a good-bye/ Lay down, black gives way to blue/ Lay down, I’ll remember you. . . ."
> 
> \--Alice in Chains, "Black Gives Way to Blue"  
> (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3q3JkNUPmI)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All Tolkien’s.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

  
His mind and heart as divided as they’ve ever been, Thorin paces the battlements alone, and has been for most of the overcast afternoon.  
  
The guards have clearly gotten sick of repeatedly coming to attention and simply remain that way, now, as their king passes them, too deep in thought to do more than absently notice them . . . too heart-sore to actually care whether they come to attention, salute him, or dance a jig in his honor.  
  
His mind is far hence, in the royal quarters—in his own chambers and bedchamber, where waits Master Baggins. . . .  
  
 _Or perhaps he’s given up waiting_ , Thorin thinks bitterly, kicking himself again. The latest in countless kicks since he’d grabbed his clothes and fled their bedchamber—and the disappointment, hurt, and shock in his lover’s eyes—like the coward that he is.  _Perhaps, even now, he’s having the guards help him move his things back to his former chambers . . . perhaps,_ even now _, he’s found haven in Master Bofur’s arms, and never mind he and Fili keeping company for the past two months. . . ._  
  
Thorin’s entire being cries out against this, and not just for the sake of his nephew’s heart.  
  
But he knows, not terribly deep down, that this is all unlikely. Bilbo can’t bear any touch save Thorin’s. At least he wasn’t able to the last  _Thorin_  knew. The likelihood of that changing over the past week is . . . small, Thorin supposes. Though Bilbo’s . . . unquenched desire—and how the sight of him, splayed in Thorin’s bed, in  _their bed_ , so wantonly, so desperate for Thorin’s touch, for Thorin’s body against his own . . . Thorin’s prick inside him—might possibly drive him to another, despite everything.  
  
It just might. . . .  
  
But, of course, it will  _not_.  
  
Thorin knows this. Knows that Master Baggins’ body is as faithful as his heart. That, as he’d said two months ago, it was, if not Thorin, then no one.  
  
“Bilbo Baggins is  _mine_ , by hook or by crook,” Thorin mutters, and for the first time, the thought, this knowledge and certainty, brings him no joy. At least not the unadulterated joy of even just a few hours ago. Now it brings a sense of confusion and heart-ache—a sense of being utterly lost in love, and unable to figure out how to proceed without destroying that which he would see flourish.  
  
And how close he had come, this afternoon! How close he had come to taking his precious burglar not three days after that burglar’s mind had been sundered by a night terror that had jangled memory, mind, and perception until most of the time Bilbo hadn’t even known where he was or when. And all because, three days ago, Thorin hadn’t been able to control himself.  
  
 _And what damage would I have been responsible for, had I lain with him today—made love to that body I have desired for so long? What damage, even as Lord Elrond rests and prepares to help Bilbo heal? Would I have pushed such healing even farther back? Even out of the realm of possibility?_  
  
Shuddering, Thorin pauses and closes his eyes, and for the first time since Bilbo faced Smaug—for the first time since Thorin had truly borne witness to the bravery and strength of hobbits . . . especially  _his_  hobbit—he sees  _that_  on the backs of his eyelids. He sees what Azog had done to Bilbo, and hears his love’s heart-wrenching screams . . . screams that’d carried on only until Bilbo lost consciousness. Which had not stopped Azog from . . . continuing to defile the small, helpless body in beneath his own.  
  
 _What a fool I am! What a dangerous fool!_  Thorin thinks, tears springing to his eyes. Tears that sting and burn, and refuse to be blinked away.  _What if Master Baggins’ memory came back while I was making love to him? What if, while I was inside him, instead of the desire and happiness he’d displayed before, he felt the fear and pain—the_ revulsion _he’d felt when Azog violated him? Durin’s beard,_ what if he’d  _remembered_  while he was in my arms? _What if he became unable to bear_ my _touch and, as he’d said, it destroyed him? What if my haste and lust had driven him to a madness beyond even Lord Elrond’s skill to heal?_  
  
Wiping his stinging eyes, Thorin starts pacing again.  
  
One thing, if nothing else, has become clear to him: Until Lord Elrond has helped Bilbo heal, Thorin must be on his guard against none other than  _himself_. Must protect his precious burglar from  _both_  their desires. Now is  _not_  the time—not the  _right_  time—to let those desires rule them. And that right time, Thorin now understands, in a way he hadn’t let himself before, may never come, even with Lord Elrond’s help. And if it does not, Thorin’s self-control will no doubt be put to the test many times in the course of his life together with Bilbo Baggins. For he means, as he swore, to cleave to the hobbit, forsaking all others, and never straying.  
  
He means, even if they never lay together as lovers, to make Bilbo his consort. If, that is, after all is said and done, the hobbit will still have him.  
  
And after Thorin’s display this afternoon, that’s looking less and less like an eventuality.  
  
Sighing, Thorin stops pacing again.  
  
 _Perhaps_ , he thinks almost wryly, but with a sense of urgency that sees him stalking back into the mountain.  _Perhaps I should speak with Master Baggins about this. Not a word has passed between us since I ran out of our bedchamber like a blushing maiden from an overly forward suitor. Who knows what damage I’ve done just by leaving him to his own tortured thoughts and suppositions? What must he think of my reasons for fleeing our bed?_  
  
Stalking on markedly faster, Thorin makes his way to the royal wing and his hobbit. Toward whatever state of mind and heart awaits him.  
  


*

  
  
What awaits him, he finds upon bursting into the bedchamber, words of sincere apology and reassurance dying on his lips, is a hobbit deeply asleep in their bed.  
  
Huddled under sheets and a blanket, turned away fom the dying fire, Bilbo Baggins slumbers so deeply, the covers barely move with his slow breathing. Sighing again, this time in frustration and a vague sense of having yet again bungled his burglar’s fragile heart, Thorin builds up the fire as quietly as he can, till the room is near to sweltering. Then he approaches their bed on cat-feet and sits gingerly at Bilbo’s side.  
  
After a few minutes of watching him sleep, Thorin dares to reach out and stroke soft, mussed hair back from a waxy-pale brow. Bilbo doesn’t so much as stir, so weary is he. . . .  
  
“And  _I_  am the one who  _makes_  you weary, am I not?” Thorin whispers, leaning down to kiss Bilbo’s crown. “It is never my intention to do so, Master Baggins. I wish only to make you happy . . . but unfortunately my own desires and wishes for what may never be get in the way of that.”  
  
Not so much as a twitch. After days of no sleeping or napping, Bilbo is, no doubt, exhausted.  
  
After the events of  _earlier in the afternoon_ , he is no doubt exhausted. Exhausted and confused and hurt and . . . so many other things. All because of Thorin’s poor choices.  
  
“Oh, my love,” he murmurs, lying down behind the hobbit, on the edge of the bed. He fights the urge for long minutes, but sooner, rather than later, he’s moving his body closer to Bilbo’s, till he’s spooned to the hobbit’s back, his face pressed into Bilbo’s sweet-smelling hair, one arm draped over Bilbo’s waist. “ _My love_.”  
  
The contact immediately relaxes Thorin, releases a tension and anxiety that’d been with him for hours. And he holds his hobbit closer, letting the stinging behind his eyes overake them completely.  
  


*

  
  
“King Thorin.” Lord Elrond bows deeply as Thorin enters the royal dining chamber, as do his traveling companions. And they are, all three of them, indeed dressed in fancy elven robes.  
  
Biting back something too wry to be a smile, Thorin returns Lord Elrond’s bow, all too aware of his own ridiculous finery. “My Lord Elrond. I trust you’ve rested well since your arrival?”  
  
“Indeed, we have. Erebor’s hospitality has not dimished, despite its recent setbacks.” Lord Elrond smiles and Thorin finds himself trying to return it with a sincerity he does not feel as he approaches the perfectly set dining table.  
  
“That is well, then. And, of course, if there’s aught else you require or wish during your stay—” he nods at Balin, Fili, and Kili, who are standing to the right of the king’s seat. Lord Elrond and his party are to the left. "We will personally see it done."  
  
Thorin pauses with his hand on the back of the ornate seat, taking a breath and glancing at the space beyond Kili. The space where protocol would place Master Baggins, had he been present. . . .  
  
Then Thorin’s stepping up the three shallow steps—this chair is built like a miniature throne, meant to place the king at a height above his dining companions, although Lord Elrond is so tall, he doubtlessly still tops Thorin markedly—and taking his seat. Everyone at the table sits after him. With perfect timing, servants enter bearing bread, butter, honey, and fruit—a concession to their guests—and flagons of dwarven ale.  
  
“I must make apologies for Master Baggins, but he will not be joining us at table, tonight,” Thorin says heavily, glancing once more at the empy seat next to Kili before turning his gaze to Lord Elrond, who’s buttering a piece of bread with economical grace. The elven lord meets his gaze with some concern.  
  
“I do hope that Master Baggins is . . . alright?”  
  
Thorin’s jaw sets, but he forces it to loosen—at least enough for him to answer. “Master Baggins is . . . extremely weary. I felt it better that he sleep than be woken to eat a dinner that he may not have an appetite for,” he replies softly, and can sense Balin’s gaze on his face, and Fili and Kili glancing at each other. “But I know that if nothing else, he will be sorry to have missed your company, Lord Elrond. He remembers you with fondness and has been looking forward to your visit.”  
  
Lord Elrond frowns just a bit. “I, myself, have been looking forward to Master Baggins’ company. Well I remember his infectious optimism and his merry spirit, and have looked forward to reacquainting myself with both.”  
  
Thorin finds that he can smile now. Ruefully. He picks up his flagon of ale and finishes it in one long swallow. “Yes, well . . . as has my kingdom, Master Baggins has had some . . . setbacks. He is . . . not as you remember him,” he says quietly, meeting the elven lord’s piercing gaze.  
  
Lord Elrond nods. “Perhaps, King Thorin, after dinner, you and I might retire to a quiet space and discuss those . . . setbacks.” He raises his own flagon, examines the contents for a moment, before taking a few sips—clearly for politeness’ sake.  
  
“That . . . that would be very kind of you, my lord,” Thorin says gruffly as a servant refills his flagon. “Long have Master Baggins’ . . . setbacks been on my mind.”  _And long have I despaired of him recovering from those setbacks . . . long have I yearned to see him begin, at last, to heal. . . ._  
  
“So I gathered from your letter.” Lord Elrond nods as if hearing Thorin’s unspoken thoughts, his eyes gone piercing once more, before he takes a delicate bite of his lightly buttered bread.  
  
Then he turns the conversation to relative inconsequentials—the continuing repairs of Erebor and the running of the kindom. Then Thorin asks him about the long road from Imladris to Erebor, a tale which Lord Elrond tells with the help of his companions.  
  
Thorin listens with half an ear, nodding in the appropriate places and asking questions when he feels the need—which is rarely. But his mind is a short way hence, abed with Bilbo Baggins. And as if sensing this, Balin, and Fili and Kili keep up the dwarven end of the conversation mostly without him, diverting attention from their distracted king.  
  
The elves, for their part, seem not to mind—take no offense from Thorin’s brooding silence, though Lord Elrond does glance at Thorin quite a few times, his gaze measuring and concerned.  
  
By the time afters arrive—more of those berry tarts that Cook is so skilled at making, and Fili and Kili are so skilled at eating—Thorin, himself, is quite weary and glad that the night nears its end. He wishes nothing more than to retire to bed and hold his hobbit till he falls into the thin, disturbed rest that passes for sleep, these days.  
  
 _But_ , he reminds himself as the dishes are cleared away, and Balin pats his stomach happily—and Kili stares wistfully after the now-empty platter that’d had the tarts on it—and the elves lavishly compliment the meat-heavy meal.  _There is still the matter of my chat with Lord Elrond about Master Baggins._  
  
It is a chat that Thorin does  _not_  look forward to. He’s never spoken to anyone about Master Baggins’ illness, save Master Baggins, and even that, not as much as perhaps he should have. To speak of it now, with a stranger—an  _elf_ —would not be a comfortable affair.  
  
 _But it is_ necessary, Thorin reminds himself sternly.  _To help him get well, there must be no dissembling, no omission, no . . . beating around the bush as if I were Thranduil at his finest. I must be as forthright as possible. Not for my own sake, but for Bilbo’s._  
  
Standing, now, and signaling the end of the meal, Thorin nods at both sides of the table, his gaze lingering pointedly on Lord Elrond, who smiles briefly and nods back, his eyes knowing and far too canny. Thorin can barely hold their gaze, but his pride will let him do nothing less.  
  
 _For you, my love,_  he thinks, steeling himself for what lies ahead.  
  


*

  
  
In the end, Thorin has one of his guards bring a tall chair from the West Meeting Chamber to his own chambers. It is only when Lord Elrond is finally seated in front of the huge hearth in the main room—larger, it is, even than the one in the bedchamber—with the fire blazing merrily along, that Thorin excuses himself for a moment to check on Bilbo—though he does not say so in so many words to the elven lord watching him curiously.  
  
“Of course,” Lord Elrond says, his gaze still far too canny for Thorin’s comfort. He turns away from it, feeling seen into in a way that he does not care for, and strides quickly away from the fire. He nonetheless feels that gaze on him all the way to the bedchamber doors. It is with a sense of relief that he lets himself in and closes the door behind himself.  
  
Master Baggins is still abed, still asleep, and shivering despite that. The bedchamber is still warm, though not as warm as the hobbit tends to like it, which is  _stifling_.  
  
Thorin builds up the fire, first and foremost, and once the flames leap and laugh crackling laughter, he turns to the bed and his love.  
  
He approaches quietly, and when he reaches it, leans down to kiss Bilbo’s shoulder, and the tip of his pointed ear. This time, he receives a soft, unhappy sigh as a response, and Bilbo turns onto his back, his face inclined marginally toward Thorin and the fire.  
  
“I love you,” Thorin whispers, brushing his fingertips across Bilbo’s cool, smooth cheek. He gets another sigh, slightly less unhappy than the last and, suddenly remembering his guest, contents himself with another kiss, this one pressed lightly to Bilbo’s pale, still lips—not even daring to taste the sweetness that has come to mean everything to him—before straightening and turning away.  
  
He marches toward the door and, upon passing a chair—one of many pieces of furniture that had migrated from Bilbo’s chambers—takes off robe and crown, leaving them there, to be taken up in the morning.  
  
For he goes to his guest  _not_  as the mightiest—and certainly the  _wealthiest_ —king in Middle Earth, but as a humble  _supplicant_. A desperate lover willing to do anything, give anything, to climb to any heights or  _stoop to any nadirs_  to protect and save that which he loves.  
  
Without a glance back at the bed, Thorin wipes his lightly-sheened brow and lets himself out of his bedchamber.  
  


*

  
  
“Will you tell me, now, the tale of your quest for Erebor, from the very beginning, and ending with you and I sharing this fire?”   
  
Thorin takes his place in the chair across from Lord Elrond’s and watches the elf stare into the flames as if they hold a puzzle he would unravel. Then Thorin sighs and sits back, the events of the day catching up with his muscles and bones.  
  
“That is . . . no brief tale, Lord Elrond,” he temporizes.  
  
“I imagine not.” That piercing gaze meets Thorin’s, but there’s a gentle sort of irony in it. A cameraderie that is surprising coming from an elven lord of Elrond's might and age. “But it is important that I know everything—and I do mean  _everything_  that happened on your quest. Not limited to the torment Master Baggins suffered at the hands of Azog, the defiler.”  
  
Thorin glances away—at the cheerful fire. Fights the snarl that wants to take his lips. “This is not some story of the road, to amuse and entertain! This is the life and sanity of someone I love!”  
  
“This I know, son of Thrain, and would not ask for what was not necessary to help Master Baggins.” Lord Elrond says gently, leaning forward in his chair, his regard heavy on Thorin . . . who will not look at him, for fear that the rage that is suddenly upon him will overflow, and cause him to say something he cannot take back. And once such a thing was said, where would Bilbo be, then?  
  
Biting back his frustration and anger—which are not, he recognizes, truly directed at Lord Elrond, but at himself—Thorin finally shakes his head once, clutching the arms of his chair till the wood creaks.  
  
 _This is a foolish waste of time,_  he means to say—to growl and glare at the elven lord. But before he can do so, he closes his eyes briefly and sees Bilbo . . . a Bilbo who is smiling and carefree—as he’d been in the early days of their quest . . . a Bilbo who was as innocent and happy as any child, and who would frequently gaze at Thorin with the wondering bemusement and awe of what Thorin took to be naive hero worship.  
  
Or so he’d told himself, in those early days.  
  
 _So much time I wasted with disdain and pride and jealousy, when I could have had him from that first night—could have made him_ mine _long before Azog’s violation . . . I could have made him happy for a few fortnights, at least. Instead I blinded myself to what even Fili and Kili could see. So much time I wasted!_  
  
“It started,” Thorin hears himself saying in low, tired tones. He opens his eyes and glances at Lord Elrond, who is once more staring into the fire intently. “It started, as so many adventures no doubt have, with Gandalf the Grey. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
Thorin has taken Lord Elrond with him all the way to Mirkwood, and the hospitality of Thranduil—has talked his own voice into a harsh, matter-of-fact whisper—when the screams start up, desperate and despairing, heart-rending and helpless.  
  
Roused from his own state of half-consciousness—with the exception of bearing witness to what Azog had done to Bilbo, Thorin could, probably literally, tell this particular adventure in his sleep, so often  _has_  he told it to his historians—Thorin is on his feet, Lord Elrond forgotten, as he runs to the bedchamber and his distressed lover.  
  
The chamber is still relatively warm, the fire still going, and Bilbo . . . is not in bed. The room, upon Thorin’s opening of the doors, had gone ominously quiet.  
  
Eyes immediately going to the guarderobe—from behind which come the soft sounds of stifled weeping—he slowly approaches it, hands held up in as nonthreatening a manner as possible.  
  
“My love,” he begins, his voice cracking out of its whisper and into a tone of controlled concern. “It’s Thorin. You remember me, do you not?”  
  
For long moments, there’s no answer, just the sounds of weeping and sniffling. Then, in a shaking, watery voice: “I remember you, Thorin.”  
  
Trying to smile in case Bilbo peeks out from behind the guarderobe, Thorin slowly inches closer. “Do you know where you are?”  
  
“Erebor,” is the unhesitating answer, and Thorin's heart lifts briefly.  
  
“Yes. You’re in Erebor. And you’re safe. Smaug is dead, and two thousand dwarves stand between us and any danger." Thorin pauses for a response. Gets none, and sighs. "You’re  _safe_ , my love.”  
  
A quiet, bitter laugh sounds from behind the guarderobe. “Nowhere is safe. Not even my dreams,” Bilbo’s own voice cracks and the hobbit peers around the edge of the large piece of furniture. His face is wet, miserable, and exhausted. He opens his mouth to say something else, and his eyes, glittering with something far too brittle and bright to be the calm semblance of sanity Bilbo had displayed the afternoon prior, dart over Thorin’s right shoulder.  
  
Glancing behind him, Thorin sees Lord Elrond standing in the doorway, tall and somber, his eyes as intent as they ever have been—but gentle, too, as he gazes upon Bilbo, who shudders, but does not withdraw behind the guarderobe, as Thorin had expected.  
  
“Nowhere is safe.  _He’s_  waiting for me in my sleep.  _Always_  waiting for me, always chasing me, always catching me, no matter how fast I run, and I—I’m so  _tired_ ,” Bilbo says softly, hopelessly, hanging his head even as he shakes it. “Why didn’t he just  _kill_  me when he was done? Why didn’t you  _let him_  kill me, Thorin?” Those bright, brittle eyes meet Thorin’s again, accusing and without comprehension. “ _Why_?  _Anything_  would be better than  _this_.”  
  
Then Bilbo’s burying his face in his hands as Thorin had done twelve hours ago, his shoulders shaking as he weeps deeply, in a way Thorin never has.  
  
“My love—” Thorin starts guiltily, resuming his slow approach of guarderobe and lover. “I have put a price on Azog the defiler’s head large enough to ransom many of the kingdoms of Middle Earth. It is only a matter of time before he is caught, dead or alive. And if he’s caught alive, I will make him  _suffer_  for you, as no creature in Middle Earth has  _ever_  before suffered,” he promises, and that grim promise takes him to the edge of the guarderobe, and within touching distance of Bilbo, though he dares not.  
  
“Don’t waste your coffers on vengeance for me—what would be the point?” Bilbo laughs again, a terrible, lifeless sound, and looks up at Thorin with those hopeless, brittle eyes. “He’s already taken everything—every bit of happiness that I could‘ve had. And there’s no getting it—any of it—back.”  
  
Shaking his head in negation, Thorin leans heavily on the guarderobe, wishing he dared to reach out and cover Bilbo’s hand, where it rests, shaking, on the edge of the enormous piece of furniture. “That’s not true, my love. When you’re well—”  
  
“Oh, isn’t it true, Thorin?” Bilbo’s snorts ruefully. “You can’t even bring yourself to touch me. Even when I beg you and offer myself freely to you, you won’t have me. I have no reason to believe that will change should I  _ever be well_ , and you think there yet exists some joy for me in this world?” Turning away from Thorin and sliding down the edge of the guarderobe till he’s sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin, arms wrapping around them, Bilbo sighs wearily. “There’s nothing for me in this world. Not anymore. No hope, nothing to look forward to. No _happiness_  . . . why couldn’t you just let him  _kill me_?”  
  
And with that, Bilbo rests his head on his knees and begins to weep again, silently, though with tremors deep enough to rock his small frame.  
  
Thorin, stunned into immobility by Bilbo’s words—by the hopelessness in a heart whose hope had once carried an entire fellowship through a journey that  _should have_  ended in death and despair, but did  _not_ —feels tears running down his own face, from eyes that don’t even burn or sting. They simply weep for his precious burglar. For the pass he’s been brought to by Thorin’s own hasty actions and desires. For the long, impossible road that lay ahead of Bilbo—the road to healing and health.  
  
A road that Thorin has unintentionally put barriers in.  
  
“Master Baggins . . . it is not  _you_  that keeps me from touching you, but what little remaining honor and common sense that I have,” Thorin says, kneeling and at last reaching out for Bilbo’s shoulder. But his hand merely hovers over it without finally settling. “I love you, and I want you more than I have ever wanted  _anything_ , and that includes the homeland of my people. But I will not risk your health any further— _compromise it_  any further than it already has been.”  
  
Bilbo sniffs and looks up and over his slumped shoulder at Thorin. He grimaces in a way that might almost be a smile.  
  
“You are kind, and have a good and noble heart, my king. Which is why I cannot trust what you say regarding myself. You say that you love me and want me, but refuse to  _trust me_  when I tell you I feel the same way for you. When I tell you I’m  _ready_  for you to have me, at long last. Your actions speak louder than your sweet words, and they say that you  _cannot_  let yourself want me and do not  _trust_  me to know what  _I_  want . . . and you never will. You may  _think_  that you will, in time—as did I, for a while—but that day will never come. The day when you can trust yourself _and_  me, and let us both have what we want. The day when you can look past your own fears and . . . disgust, I suppose, and simply  _be with me_.  
  
"I know, now, that time will never come."  
  
Looking away from the keen, hurt look in Bilbo’s eyes, Thorin takes a shaking breath, Bilbo’s devastating words striking his core as only the truth can. “If you truly wish it of me, my love, I can try again to make love to you. I can try—”  _to put aside the fact that I am horrified that your memory of being violated will return to us both when I am inside you. That the one thing I desire more than anything, is the one thing that has the power to finish what Azog began, and destroy you completely. . . ._  
  
“You should not have to  _try_  my lord,” Bilbo reminds Thorin, with another grimace of a smile. “And even if you could force yourself to make love to me, Azog would lie ever between us, would he not?”  
  
Thorin sits back, once more stunned at this echo of his thoughts. Bilbo nods as if having his own thoughts confirmed, and glances up and behind Thorin. At Lord Elrond, who has moved closer. Close enough, that Thorin can hear the near-silent swish of elven silk and smell the green-flowers-forest scent that tends to attend all elves, in his experience.  
  
“My Lord Elrond . . . I apologize for my . . . unseemly display,” Bilbo says in a voice that shakes, but firms even as he goes on, wiping his face. “I had meant to present a better face for at least the first night of your stay in Erebor.”  
  
“You need not apologize to me, Master Baggins,” Lord Elrond says, kneeling next to Thorin, one hand held out in invitation to the hobbit. Bilbo stares at it for a few moments as if he doesn’t understand its presence in regard to himself. “You are the reason I have traveled so far, and I see now that I was right to do so.”  
  
Turning red, Bilbo bites his lower lip. “I don’t suppose there’s any help for me, is there? Or am I too . . . broken to ever be put back together again?”  
  
There’s a smile in Lord Elrond’s voice when he answers, gentle and kind. “There are  _none_  too broken to be put back together, Master Baggins. There is only the lack of skill, care, and tenacity to do so.” A thoughtful pause, in which Thorin looks away from Bilbo’s face and to Lord Elrond. Indeed, the elven lord seems pensive . . . but not downcast.  
  
Hope kindles in Thorin’s broken heart—hope that hurts even as it cleanses.  
  
“And do you think . . . do you have the skill to help me heal? And the care and tenacity?” Bilbo asks tentatively. Lord Elrond thinks this question over for nearly a minute, in which Thorin holds his breath and Bilbo obviously does the same.  
  
“I think that, with skill and care and tenacity, I can help you be whole again, Bilbo Baggins.” Lord Elrond extends his hand a bit closer to Bilbo then surprisingly, also extends one to Thorin, who’s startled into taking it, a moment after Bilbo does the same—though not without a visible and violent shudder. The elven lord's hand is not rough, but it is firm and strong. He pulls them both to their feet easily, his gaze settling on each of them in turn, ancient and wise . . . and immeasurably kind.  
  
“With skill and care and tenacity," Lord Elrond says calmly, "I will help heal you  _both_.”


	9. Dawn of a New Age 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Elrond hears Bilbo’s tale, and gets the lay of the land, so to speak. Written in the dark watches of the night, as well as the stark, dread afternoon—powered by Red Bull and16 Horsepower’s album Folklore (most especially “Hutterite Mile”). Check it out, if you’re not familiar with their work. It’s good stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I would never take credit for someone else’s genius. I much prefer to take credit for my own.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

When Thorin at last ends the tale of the fellowship’s quest for Erebor—with occasional input from a distracted, absent Bilbo Baggins, who, forsaking the chair Thorin had brought over to the fire and placed between his own and Lord Elrond’s, is sitting tailor-style at the hearth itself, the firelight flickering on a face that is sometimes covered in tears, sometimes not—and begins the tale of his and the fellowship’s efforts to keep and hold the kingdom, to right and rule it, the great clock chimes.  
  
Glancing away from Bilbo, from whom Thorin’s worried, yearning gaze has only rarely shifted in the hours since the hobbit joined him and Lord Elrond, he blinks at the elven lord, who is also watching Bilbo with some concern.  
  
“Master Baggins,” he says softly, then again, when Bilbo seems not to hear him. Finally Bilbo looks up, his unhappy face dry of tears at the moment.  
  
“Forgive me, my lord. My mind . . . often wanders, of late.” A tentative, limp smile that does not reach Bilbo’s nakedly miserable eyes. But Lord Elrond returns the smile, as kindly and gently as ever he has, and Thorin understands, in this moment, that—if no one else— _here_  is someone with whom he might entrust not only his love’s life, but his mind and  _spirit_. Here is someone who will not, whether through malice, or simple clumsiness or thoughtlessness, harm Bilbo Baggins further.  
  
It’s something of a relief to understand this, even as it makes Thorin unreasonably jealous that an elven lord will, in the end, be better for  _Thorin’s love_ , than  _Thorin_  will.  
  
And yet, that last gasp of Thorin’s bull-headed pride is quieted, now, as he stares at Bilbo’s lovely face—a face made for merriment and smiles—so downcast and lacking in hope. The only thing Thorin wants, he realizes, is for the hobbit to at last be  _well_. To be, if not as he used to be, then be whatever it is it’s in him to be  _now_  . . . whatever it is that he trembles on the cusp of becoming. Because whatever, whoever that person is . . . Thorin knows he will be  _glorious_.  
  
For Bilbo Baggins could never be, even at his worst, anything less.  
  
“. . . that  _you_  might take up the tale, now,” Lord Elrond is saying quietly, glancing briefly at Thorin, whose brows lift slightly. Then that dark, clear gaze is settling once more on a surprised Bilbo, who shivers despite the fire and despite wearing another of Thorin’s thick, old tunics over a pair of his own trousers.  
  
“I—I am no teller of tales, my lord. Once, perhaps, I . . . but now, my memory is a pile of leaves fallen far from their tree, all riddled with caterpillar holes and covered in mud.” Bilbo shakes his head, smiling sadly. “If you truly wish it of me, I’ll try. But King Thorin would tell it better and more clearly than I. As he has been for these long watches of the night.”  
  
“Ah, but King Thorin  _has_  told this tale for many long hours, now, and could use, I sense, relief from having to speak. And  _you_ , Master Baggins, have, I further sense, been relatively silent regarding . . . certain matters for far too long.” Lord Elrond leans forward in the tall chair, the firelight making his dark eyes seem to flicker and glow. “Will you tell me  _your tale_ , now? From the morning Gandalf appeared on your doorstep, to the night you fled the goblins and the creature, Gollum, until you woke up in the small hours of this morning?”  
  
Bilbo gapes. “B-but, my lord—I—I’ve never—” he blushes. “I’m certain everything worth telling, King Thorin has already told you. There is no embellishment I would add to his telling of our journey together. And even if there were . . . I cannot guarantee that what I remember is true.” Looking down at his hands, at fingers which pick at the hem of Thorin’s tunic, he sighs. “Everything is so fragmented and jumbled in my mind, where once . . . it was so  _whole and clear_. Even my memories of the Shire are . . . slipping and sometimes . . . I cannot tell what is real, anymore, and what is merely the remnant of a dream or nightmare.”  
  
When Bilbo falls silent, Thorin immediately sits forward, meaning to stand and go to the hobbit, to take Bilbo in his arms no matter their company, but Lord Elrond stays him with a gesture.  
  
“It is not a historian’s accuracy and attention to detail that I require of you, but merely your own version of events. Your own . . . point of view. I would see the travels and travails of the fellowship through your eyes, for I believe that therein lies a tell more worth telling than most,” Lord Elrond says softly, but intently, and when Bilbo looks up at him reluctantly, the elven lord does not smile, but simply nods once. “Tell me the tale of  _your_  travels with the fellowship . . . and of the woes that have beset you since you fled the caves of the goblins.”  
  
Sighing, Bilbo meets Lord Elrond’s gaze squarely, but his face is pale even in the ruddy firelight. “I don’t remember Azog raping me, if that’s what you’re getting at. I don’t remember anything after climbing a tree to escape the wargs, and before waking up to Gandalf and Thorin leaning over me. And even those memories are not exactly . . . clear.” The hobbit’s eyes turn to Thorin, unreadable except for their helpless vulnerability. “You t-told him, did you not, my king? What happened? You told Lord Elrond . . . everything you saw that night?”  
  
Heart hurting, Thorin nods, the backs of his eyes stinging. “I told him, my love,” he says in a harsh, croaking whisper: the result of a long night spent speaking of things he’s spoken of many times before . . . and of some things he hopes never to speak of again.  
  
Looking, now, to Lord Elrond almost pleadingly, Thorin swallows the last vestiges of his not inconsiderable pride and says: “It is enough, is it not, to know what happened? Needs must you extend Master Baggins’ torment by making him . . . relive the times surrounding Azog’s violation? By making him recall that which sunders his mind and darkens his spirit?”  
  
Lord Elrond frowns, but before he can speak, Bilbo does, sighing once more. “Thorin—my king . . . if Lord Elrond requires my version of events . . . even  _th-those_  events, then he shall have them. If he thinks it best that I tell this tale then tell it, I will.” And turning back to the fire, Bilbo’s shoulders sag for a few moments before they straighten and square.  
  
In this moment, Thorin has never been prouder of his hobbit. Never admired him more, even as he wishes nothing more than to make such unadorned bravery, such quiet, desperate strength unnecessary.  
  
Never has he been more worried, and desirous of taking another’s burden onto his own shoulders.  
  
Once more, he would go to Bilbo, and offer the now dubious comfort of his embrace, but he doesn’t have to glance at Lord Elrond to know that the elven lord would bid him stay.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Thorin clenches his hands on the arms of his chair and contents himself with staring longingly at the small figure leaning toward the roaring fire.  
  
“I remember,” Bilbo begins so quietly, both Thorin and Lord Elrond lean forward to hear him. “I remember running down a forested slope in the last of the day’s light, toward the fellowship. Toward my  _friends_ , glad that both they and I were alive for me to do so, despite being uncertain of the welcome I would receive. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
Bilbo speaks . . . and well past the time Thorin would usually be starting his day—though Thorin’d had the foresight to clear his schedule for the day, in the hopes that Lord Elrond would be starting his attempt to heal Bilbo so soon. And Thorin had and does intend to bear witness to such an endeavor—well after the tray with breakfast arrives—breakfast for three, and very heavy on fresh fruits and vegetables, and bread, butter, and honey.  
  
While Bilbo speaks, his quiet voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire, Thorin puts together a plate for his burglar and himself, and without looking to Lord Elrond to see if it’s alright, simply sits at the hearth next to Bilbo, placing the hobbit’s plate in front of him. He sets his hand down on the warm hearthstones, next to Bilbo’s, even daring to let the edge of hand and finger brush Bilbo’s, and linger.  
  
Bilbo doesn’t falter in his telling, but he does glance away from the fire, at Thorin, and smiles absently. That smile makes Thorin’s heart skip beats all while beating ever faster. He wants nothing more than to kiss Bilbo Baggins—take the hobbit into his arms and  _kiss him_  till the fire burns low and Bilbo’s shivering has stopped. Or at least has continued for a different reason. . . .  
  
Bilbo blushes as if reading this very desire in Thorin’s eyes, and looks away, his absent smile turning melancholy, and the hand that Thorin had brushed moves away. Not far, but enough so that they’re no longer touching.  
  
He continues his tale without so much as a stutter, his eyes focused on the fire with grim determination. Thorin sighs and follows that gaze wishing, as always, that he could see what his love sees in the flames. Wishing that he could at least, if not see what Bilbo sees, then  _know_ what Bilbo knows. . . .  
  
Looking, now, from the fire, Thorin picks at his tasteless breakfast.  
  
Neither Bilbo nor Lord Elrond touches theirs at all.  
  


*

  
  
When Bilbo reaches the point in his tale where he moves into Thorin’s rooms, he grows a bit hesitant, his face a red that cannot be blamed entirely upon the fire. He speaks of the first time Thorin kissed him with a mixture of wistfulness, wonder, and self-deprecation, not looking at either Lord Elrond or Thorin while he does so. Thorin, for his part, has once more removed himself to his chair, and is glad that neither hobbit nor elf are looking at  _him_. For his own face is caught in a fierce flush that only grows more so as Bilbo speaks plainly, with clear longing, of the two months worth of kisses, caresses, and embraces that followed that first. Of his own desires and the evidence of Thorin’s desires, and how such . . . evidence had made him feel.  
  
He speaks plainly, indeed, of wanting Thorin’s touch even as he feared being repulsed by it. But as his tale nears its conclusion, he speaks less of that fear, except to mention its slow passing, and more of the way it had felt to be held and desired by Thorin. And certainly he speaks of these things as a person who still yearns for that of which he speaks.  
  
Thorin turns his face away from hobbit and fire not out of shame, but out of confusion and dismay that’s only partly caused by his  _own_  yearning and desire.  _No matter what he wants and believes he can handle now, no matter how strong and brave his heart, he is still beset by an illness of the mind and spirit. I must remember that, and not push him for what I desire so . . . I must be honorable for myself and strong for us both.  
  
And yet . . . he so obviously yearns for my touch as I yearn for his. He is right . . . I have teased then turned him away because I would have him in every way possible, yet fear doing some unremissable damage to him in the process. Even if he were to be rendered whole and well before my very eyes, as by some spell, how would I ever be certain that I could love him without causing him harm? How could I trust him to know when he’s ready, and how could I trust_myself _with him?  
  
Or, as Bilbo fears . . . will that day simply never come?_  
  
Thorin doesn’t realize he’s splintering the wooden armrests of his chair until one such splinter pierces his palm and Lord Elrond and Bilbo both look over at his startled hiss of pain.  
  
Waving away their attention with his good hand, Thorin clears his throat and ignores the splinter until Bilbo’s resumed his tale and Lord Elrond’s gaze is intent upon the fire, once more.  
  
Listening to the hobbit’s voice crack with shame, hesitation, and hurt as he begins to speak of the previous afternoon in detail—of Thorin’s ill-fated attempt to make love to him—Thorin barely feels the pain of the splinter as he plucks it out of his palm. Blood immediately wells out and he clenches his fist around the wound, flicking the splinter itself at the fire and gritting his teeth as Bilbo’s already quiet voice drops to a whisper when he candidly describes the near-apex of their passion . . . and Thorin’s sudden abandonment of him in the midst of it.  
  
It’s obvious that the hobbit feels that Thorin’s ignominious exit is somehow his fault—Thorin isn’t blind to the way Bilbo covertly wipes at his eyes as he speaks, his face turned carefully from Lord Elrond’s and Thorin’s.  
  
 _It is not your fault, my love, my own,_  Thorin would say, were they alone. Were he brave enough to do so in front of their guest.  _It is no one’s fault—any of it—but my own. My fault that I walked right into Azog’s trap and in doing so, needed your brave defense. It is my fault that while you defended me, he captured you and violated you to make me suffer . . . and my fault that even now, so many months later, you are still affected by it. My fault that I cannot touch you the way you wish to be touched—and my fault that even if I were able to, it might_ still _harm you to be touched so. . . ._  
  
“. . . and I . . . I cried myself to sleep, I suppose,” Bilbo is saying, with a wry little laugh and a sigh. “I don’t remember  _actually_  falling asleep, or I’d have tried harder to stay awake. I know, now, at this late date, what happens when I fall asleep, so I usually take care not to. Especially when I’m alone.” Shaking his head, Bilbo looks up at Lord Elrond, not bothering to wipes at his wet eyes anymore. “The rest, you know, my lord. I woke up already screaming—no memory of what I’d dreamt, just the knowledge that I’d been ch-chased, and caught. And . . . h-hurt.  
  
“And it was not the first time I’ve had such dreams, as I’ve said. They’ve become quite familiar to me, and yet . . . each time I sleep, and wake up screaming, it seems a little worse. It gets a little harder to remember . . . who I once was, and that there’s more to life than the horror of memory and nightmare.”  
  
With that, Bilbo falls silent, looking down at his hands.  
  
Thorin wants,  _yearns_  above all else, to go put his arms around his troubled love, but he dares not. Not in the face of the earlier rejection of his touch. He restrains himself for Bilbo’s sake . . . and for his own.  
  
Instead, he looks to Lord Elrond, who has sat back in his tall chair, his face once more pensive, eyes still upon the dancing flames.  
  
“It will be no easy journey,” he says finally, with a soft sigh, “the road that is recovery from such hurts as you’ve suffered. It will be long and painful—there may be times you indeed wish Azog’s knives had worked their evil and ended your life—and it may take a very long time to notice . . . improvement. Long after I’ve done what I can, and long after you will have thought yourself done with the pain of the torment you’ve suffered, you will still experience . . . temporary setbacks. There will be days when you think you cannot go on, and days when you merely wish you couldn’t. There will be days when the touch of others—” and here, Lord Elrond glances at Thorin obliquely “—will be a delight and a comfort . . . and days when you avoid it as a plague. And there may be no rhyme or reason to these days, or their ordering. At least none that you are able decipher. But you will weather them, as best you may. As you  _must_. For there will be times of such joy that even the lowest days will be worth bearing.”  
  
Now, Lord Elrond’s gaze lands on Bilbo, who swallows and squares his shoulders again, bearing up under that piercing stare at least as well as Thorin ever has.  
  
“You are made to be joyful, Master Baggins, and your spirit is far stronger than—and in ways that such as Azog the defiler can neither understand nor mitigate—what you have suffered. You will come to see this, and when you do, when your spirit is able to  _accept_ —when you are able to _know_ , with your waking mind, what was done to you, and grieve for what you have lost, for that is an  _intergral_  part of the rebuilding of your self that  _must_  happen—that you are no longer the same hobbit who ran out his front door and down the road after a company of questing dwarves, you will be able to discover who you are  _now_ , and who you must become. And with that discovery, you will once more be able to find joy in this world. And to make joy where there was none.” And so saying he glances once more at Thorin, who again feels seen into, and far too lost and confused to hold Lord Elrond’s gaze for long, pride bedamned. So he returns his attention to his lover to gauge Bilbo’s reaction to these words.  
  
While Lord Elrond had spoken, slow tears had begun running down Bilbo’s face, a fragile hope dawning in his lovely eyes. A hope that Thorin had thought that he, himself, had all but destroyed the day prior. The sight of it, a small, guttering flame lighting the dark and casting back the shadows that linger in Bilbo’s heart . . . the sight of that causes Thorin’s breath to catch.  
  
“Is that . . . is that even possible, my lord?” Bilbo asks softly—it’s almost a plea, and his eyes shine with both tears and anxiety. And yes, with that fragile hope that takes Thorin’s breath away, so long has it been since he’s seen its like in Bilbo Baggins’ eyes. “After everything—after so long of this forgotten torment festering in my heart and mind, blighting every part of my life, even the dreams I once held so dear—to feel joy again? To be a  _cause_  of joy, instead of worry and fear, pity and disgust?”  
  
And Bilbo does not look to Thorin while he speaks, but Thorin knows the dreams of which Bilbo speaks. Knows that he, himself, is assumed to feel those mentioned emotions regarding Bilbo, rather than what he  _truly_  feels: a love so great and consuming, it scares Thorin—and would no doubt scare Bilbo, knew he its true depths and the lack of limits to its possessive, greedy desire.  
  
 _My love would suffocate us both, if I let it,_  Thorin thinks wearily, hanging his head and staring unseeingly at his bloody, injured palm.  _If I let it, it would have you without regard for what said having would do to you. It would own you completely and for-ever, keep you under lock and key to protect you and to have you all to itself. It is a starving wolf in a neverending winter, my love, and you are both mate and prey. . . ._  
  
“You are stronger than you know, Master Baggins. Stronger than the defilers of this world would ever suspect,” Lord Elrond repeats, smiling that kind, gentle smile that Thorin would never have expected, even from this particular elf. “What you must remember is that there is  _nothing_  that can destroy you without your express permission. If you wish to be well, to be whole, to be _happy_ , you will be those things in time and with hard work. If you wish to overcome  _his_  attempt to besmirch that which he could never truly touch, you  _will_  overcome. And  _I_  will help you. Will teach you ways in which to heal yourself, for that is where all healing must begin and where, I think you’ll find, it must reach its conclusion.”  
  
“Oh!” Bilbo says softly, more tears falling. He sniffs and laughs a little, wiping his face. “Oh, my lord—you awake such a hope in my heart as I’ve done without for so very long!”  
  
Bilbo laughs again, burying his face in his hands, and this time Thorin cannot restrain himself. He goes to his love, kneeling at his side, and pulls him into a tentative, hesitant embrace. But before he can even dare a more certain grasp of Bilbo, Bilbo has thrown his arms around Thorin’s neck and tucked his head under Thorin’s chin. He shakes with both laughter and tears, hope and dismay. But he does not refuse Thorin’s comfort, instead leaning into it—holding onto Thorin as if for dear life.  
  
Surprised and pleased, Thorin folds the hobbit into his embrace gingerly, but tenderly, closing his eyes on his own tears for several minutes and rocking Bilbo slowly. Even though it’s been less than a day since last he held Bilbo Baggins, he has missed this . . . missed the way Bilbo fits so perfectly in his arms. . . .  
  
“And you, son of Thrain,” Lord Elrond says softly, and Thorin looks up, startled out of his reverie. Lord Elrond is watching him with that piercing gaze, yet again. But this time, Thorin meets it without difficulty, shame, or confusion. Bilbo is in his arms, and that leaves little room for anything but a restless sort of contentment and, as ever, a yearning for  _more_. “The same I would say to you: If you wish to overcome the defiler’s torment of someone you love so all-encompassingly . . . you  _will_. But you  _must_  first acknowledge that there  _is_  healing that needs to be done. I can do nothing for you that you are not first willing to do for yourself.”  
  
 _I need no healing, Master Elf. I need only Bilbo Baggins, whole and safe in my arms,_  Thorin means to say— _almost says_ , in fact. But that gaze, so dark and uncanny, intensifies to the point of being nearly unbearable. It cuts through Thorin’s wall of willful pride and focused obsession as a ray of sunlight through a wisp of cloud.  
  
“If you do not heal,” Lord Elrond says so quietly, Thorin can barely hear him, and Bilbo, who is still weeping and shaking, likely  _does not_  hear him. “If you do not  _accept_  that you  _need to heal_ every bit as much as your precious burglar, then you  _never_  will. And if  _you_  don’t heal, neither will Master Baggins.” When Thorin’s mouth drops open in shock and disbelief, Lord Elrond sits back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the fire once more, grim, but otherwise unreadable. “Ignore my words at your peril and his, Thorin Oakenshield. You are connected to Bilbo Baggins by ties too complex and sacred to be severed. His fate is inextricably bound to yours. If you heal and prosper, so will he. If you choose to . . . stagnate and founder . . . so will he. This I know.”  
  
Helpless but to squeeze his hobbit closer, protectively, Thorin scowls at the elven lord, even as the scent of Bilbo’s hair does its best to lull him into a state of—he senses—dangerous complacency. But when it comes to Bilbo Baggins’ well-being and safety, complacency  _will not_ do, not at all. “Have you . . . Foreseen this, then?” he asks hesitantly, far from certain he wants to know the answer to such a question, but  _quite_  certain that he  _needs must_  know, nonetheless.  
  
And this  _new_  smile, rueful and mirthless, sits strangely on Lord Elrond’s long, expressive face—becomes almost a rictus in the flicker of the firelight, which has drawn his gaze once more.  
  
“ _I have_ lived _it_ ,” Lord Elrond says, soft as the ghost of a whisper, his own hands clenching tight on the arms of his chair . . . before releasing slowly. Those dark eyes narrow as if seeing something in the flames . . . something he would have, and at great pain. When Thorin follows his gaze he sees, as usual, nothing but empty orange light, however . . . and he finds that he is glad. That he has no wish to see the desire that would put such a naked and devastated look on such a composed, almost ascetic face.  
  
Lord Elrond suddenly sits forward, one hand leaving the armrest as if he would reach out and touch the flames . . . or the vision he sees in them. . . .  
  
Then his hand closes into a loose fist and he blinks several times, his face settling into melancholy— _weary_ —lines as he sighs heavily and closes his eyes for long moments. When he stands, it is slowly, as if feeling every year of his true age, and then some.  
  
“I must think upon what you’ve told me, and rest a little,” he says almost distractedly, smoothing his grey and green robe, and turning his once more unreadable gaze upon Thorin and Bilbo—but those lines of weariness and sadness are still writ upon his face . . . for the eyes that are able read such a tale. “But I would like to arrange for another session with you this afternoon, Master Baggins, if you are willing. At three of the clock? And perhaps we might . . . walk for a little on the battlements, while we speak. The fresh air would, I think, do you a world of good.”  
  
There’s no reply for so long that Thorin looks down at the hobbit in his arms, certain that he’s gone to sleep. But Bilbo is wide awake and looking up at Thorin solemnly, that small hope in his eyes barely discernable for the flicker and play of the firelight.  
  
“What is it, my love?” Thorin asks gently and Bilbo smiles a little, his hand coming up to cup Thorin’s face briefly. Even that fleeting touch makes Thorin moan and his eyes flutter shut as he flushes with a heat not borne of the fire.  
  
“I . . . nothing. It’s nothing, I suppose,” Bilbo says lowly, clearing his throat and turning his gaze to Lord Elrond, who patiently awaits an answer. “My lord, I am ever at your disposal. Though I am . . . not comfortable outside, as I once was. Not without . . . without King Thorin as my escort.”  
  
This admission comes with a red face and downcast eyes, and Thorin kisses Bilbo’s temple.  
  
“You once faced a dragon without me, my love . . . you are braver than anyone in this mountain. In this  _world_. Never forget that, and do whatever you must to be well,” he whispers to the pulse that beats steadily under his reverent lips.  
  
The kiss is broken when Bilbo looks up at him again, frowning a little, and searching Thorin’s eyes for long moments.  
  
“And you do the same, my lord,” he says finally, leaning up to kiss the corner of Thorin’s mouth quickly, lightly, then pulling out of his arms altogether to stand up. He then bows deeply to Lord Elrond, who bows back with equal graciousness.  
  
“I will . . . meet you on the battlements at three o’clock, Lord Elrond. And I thank you for your kindness and patience with me. I shall try to be worthy of both, in future.” Bilbo straightens, as does Lord Elrond.  
  
“You are already worthy of both, and more, Master Baggins.” Turning his gaze once more to Thorin, who has also stood up, Lord Elrond bows again. “King Thorin . . . I would also ask that tonight, you, Master Baggins, and myself, might dine together—perhaps in my quarters. There are several matters I feel it important that we discuss in private, not the least of which is both your problems with sleeping.”  
  
“I have no problems sleeping,” Thorin says without thinking and both Bilbo and Lord Elrond cast him wry glances.  
  
“Your sleep is is both thin and disturbed, Thorin,” Bilbo says gently, taking Thorin’s hand and squeezing it tight before pulling it to his cheek. His eyes are solemn, once more, and worried. “I’ve spent weeks watching you sleep, my king, and though you do not wake up screaming, as I do, there are many nights that I have observed you in which I thought it was a close thing.”  
  
Flabbergasted, Thorin looks from hobbit to elf and back. “I . . . my mind has been weighed upon, of late, with many matters, so naturally, I—” Thorin falls silent when he catches Lord Elrond’s eye—that keen, piercing  _gaze_.  
  
 _If you don’t heal,_  he’d said, mere minutes ago,  _neither will Master Baggins._  
  
Brushing his thumb across Bilbo’s smooth, soft cheek, Thorin sighs. Lets his hand fall away, only to settle on Bilbo’s waist. He does not miss the way Bilbo’s eyes widen, and the hobbit trembles in his grasp.  
  
 _What is there to heal? I am fine, am I not?_  he thinks hesitantly, but genuinely puzzled.  _It was not_ I _who was . . . violated. If I sleep poorly, then let poor sleep be the hallmark of a conscientious leader. One who hasn’t grown complacent and arrogant with the lives and trust of his people._  
  
And yet, staring into Bilbo’s eyes, he can’t help but wonder how he’d react if  _Bilbo_  used a similar rationale to justify his own poor sleep. To pass it off as nothing, when clearly there’s  _something_ very wrong.  
  
Granted, it’s not the same thing, Thorin’s poor sleep and  _Bilbo’s_ , and yet. . . .  
  
Would it not be better to come to his duties—to his  _life_  with the benefit of being more rested than he has been of late? Where would the harm be in at least entertaining Lord Elrond’s advice, if not heeding it?  
  
“If Master Baggins believes I would . . . benefit from such a discussion . . . then I am open to it,” Thorin says slowly, only briefly glancing away from Bilbo’s sudden, lovely smile to meet Lord Elrond’s slightly amused, but approving eyes.  
  
Clearing his throat, and making his voice as gruff as possible, Thorin addresses Lord Elrond, though he has eyes for none but Bilbo Baggins, who is still smiling brighter than the flames nearby. “Master Baggins will see you at three on the battlements, and we will both see you at seven, in your quarters. Until then, Lord Elrond, I bid you rest well.”  
  
It’s an unsubtle dismissal, one that Lord Elrond does not take offense at, instead bowing and backing toward the doors—still amused somewhere beneath his now sanguine face, Thorin senses, though he does not care. He cares nothing for anything beyond the eyes that stare so trustingly, so openly into his own.  
  
When the doors shut behind Lord Elrond, Thorin and Bilbo are still staring into each other’s eyes, their absent guest quite forgotten for the moment.  
  
“Master Baggins,” Thorin begins, noting the way Bilbo’s eyes flick to his mouth for a moment then a tiny pink tip of tongue comes out to wet Bilbo’s own lips. That flush of heat from earlier returns, taking Thorin suddenly and powerfully, forcing a stifled groan from his lips. “Bilbo. . . .”  
  
“Yes, my king?” Bilbo breathes stepping closer to Thorin and placing his hands on Thorin’s chest. In that moment, Thorin can easily imagine himself scooping the hobbit up into his arms and bearing him hence. To their bed, to continue what had started yesterday afternoon.  
  
To  _try_ , anyway. . . .  
  
He can imagine himself leaving a wet trail of kisses and love-marks from Bilbo’s lips to the russet brown curls between his legs, and taking Bilbo’s prick into his mouth and bringing him off to a chorus of those sweet, breathless cries. . . .  
  
And surely, simply  _that_  wouldn’t harm Bilbo, would it? Surely such an innocent pleasure could _not—  
  
But then, such pleasures never _remain _innocent, do they?_  
  
“A walk!” Thorin blurts out desperately, and Bilbo starts and blinks.  
  
“A  _what_?” he asks, as if certain he’d heard wrong. His hands are still curled on Thorin’s chest, his face inclined at a perfect angle to be kissed. But Thorin forces his attention away from Bilbo’s lips and onto the persistent twinge in his palm. Lets his eyes be drawn to the empty air above Bilbo’s right shoulder.  
  
“Would you, Master Baggins, accompany me on a walk along the road to New Dale? Possibly even, if you’re up to it, the outskirts of the city?” Thorin clears his throat again and hopes the fire hides the fierce encrimsoning of his face. Tries to lock away the thoughts of moments ago, though he can all but taste Bilbo’s bittersweet-salt release on his tongue and already yearns for it—and for the heady contrast that is the simple sweetness of his lips afterwards. “It is a pleasant walk, and I am decidedly free this morning. And . . . in need of a diversion.”  
  
“A  _diversion_?” Bilbo huffs out then snorts sardonically. “Yes. I understand the need, myself.” The look he gives Thorin is knowing and ironic, fond and exasperated. “Alright, then, if I can make it past the gates without fleeing back under the mountain, then I would like nothing more, my king, than to accompany you on your walk. Well— _almost_  nothing more.”  
  
Thorin simply ignores that last, arch retort, as he certainly cannot afford to  _notice_  it. “Splendid. I will wait out here while you dress. And dress warmly—there’s been a deeper chill in the air, of late.”  
  
Bilbo sighs, but nods, smiling when he attempts to pull free of Thorin’s grasp and Thorin refuses, at least for a few moments, anyway, to let go, his hands clenching possessively about Bilbo’s waist.  
  
But let go he does, and Bilbo pads quietly to their bedchamber, looking smaller and more fragile than ever in Thorin’s too-large grey tunic.  
  
When the door to their bedchamber shuts softly, Thorin stumbles to his chair and collapses gratefully into it, both exhausted and energized, delighted and dismayed, guilty and gleeful.  
  
And hard enough to pound nails.  
  
For a few moments he glares into the fire and considers going to wank in his office. Not an uncommon occurrence over the past two months. And he certainly wouldn’t need much in the way of enticement to finish quickly—just imagining a certain pair of lips laying kisses across his chest would and has done it in the past—and efficiently. But in the end he chooses, instead, to ignore his erection in the hopes that it will go away on its own.  
  
And, slowly, it starts to, to Thorin’s great relief. Thoughts of the many late nights and early mornings he will have to spend catching up on the work of governance are useful, at least, for _something_  other than disturbing his rest.  
  
Plus if there’s one thing Thorin prides himself on, it’s his stoicism and self-control in the face of great temptation. Or it was, before Bilbo Baggins began sharing his chambers—  
  
Sharing his  _life_.  
  
 _But if ever there was incentive to regain that self-control, Bilbo’s recovery is it. I_ will _maintain a respectful distance, and allow him the time and space to heal. I will control my desires, rather than let them control me. I’m too old to be doing otherwise. And Bilbo deserves far better of me than I have thus far given him._  
  
Nodding to himself, Thorin’s resolve firms. There will be no bedding or nearly-bedding his hobbit till he’s healed—no more incessant and secretive wanking at the mere thought of Bilbo Baggins . . . said wanking contributing nothing more to his life than a sharpening of his as yet unseemly desires. No, there will  _only_  be Thorin’s customary self-control of body, mind, and heart. . . .  
  
Then the door to their bedchamber opens and Master Baggins steps out, dressed in his traveling clothes and a fur-lined cloak, smiling his nervous, sweet, determined smile and looking much as he did, once upon an adventure, innocent and  _so very lovely_  in his utter guilelessness, and—  
  
 _This promises to be a walk to remember,_  Thorin thinks, exasperated with  _himself_  as he jumps to his feet while pulling his tunic down low over his . . . famed  _self-control_.  
  
From the way Bilbo—gone suddenly wide-eyed and breathless—blushes, right to the very tips of his pointed ears, Thorin’s ruse is fooling neither of them. But he offers his arm gallantly, nonetheless, covering Bilbo’s hand with his own when it settles lightly just above his wrist. Bilbo clears his throat and will not meet Thorin’s eyes, his breathing still shallow and fast as he smiles to himself.  
  
And even such limited contact, buffered by the layers of their clothes—that and Bilbo’s poorly hidden desire—sets Thorin’s body aflame and his blood coursing through his veins like a raging river. The erection that’d begun to fade returns swiftly, and with an unsatisfied vengeance that is made all the worse by the friction of his breeches and walking. By the lovely creature on his arm, who is still blushing prettily and smiling.  
  
Thorin opens the doors to their chambers, indicating that Bilbo should exit before him. The hobbit does so with a shy glance, and Thorin’s eyes instinctively sweep up and down the lithe, lovely frame. Bilbo has not, despite his illness, lost any of his quiet grace and economy of movement, nor has that innocence and guileless quality diminished.  
  
Simply to  _watch_  this body he desires so, in motion, is to have his reason quite overthrown, Thorin discovers suddenly, to his chagrin and dismay.  
  
All pretense at self-control and stoicism are cast aside and he wishes he’d simply wanked when he’d had the  _chance_. If only to make this spur-of-the-moment walk less . . . awkward and frustrating than it's shaping up to be.  
  
Quickly and covertly adjusting himself in his breeches, Thorin catches up to Bilbo with another hastily stifled groan. After a few moments, he reclaims the hobbit’s hand and leads him hence, attempting—with limited success, he knows—to distract them both with chat about inconsequentials.  
  
 _A walk to remember, indeed._


	10. Dawn of a New Age 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo’s walk gets diverted. Thorin’s mind is changed. Dinner is delayed because of a royal prerogative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Random thought, but . . . a conversation between Jim Morrison and Mr. Spock? Would be the awesome. I would give my nonexistent first-born to be a fly on that wall.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“It is a lovely day, despite the chill, is it not, my lord?”

Thorin, who has noticed almost nothing of the walk so far but his own stifled desires and the focus of those desires, wide-eyed and attentive on his arm, smiles wryly. “Lovely, indeed,” he agrees quietly, glancing away from Bilbo before he can be accused of making calf-eyes.

“So many colors—such beautiful foliage on the trees and bushes—and frost has not yet killed off the grass,” Bilbo muses a bit wonderingly, looking from one side of the road to the other at the pale, but hardy grass that covers the foothills of Erebor and much of the land between it and New Dale. “Though it will shortly, I suppose. There  _is_  a definite and persistent chill already. Or is it just me?”

Now, those wide eyes train on Thorin, who does not meet them. “It is not just you, Master Baggins. Winter will come early, this year, as will the snows. And likely stay late,” Thorin adds grimly. Bilbo sighs.

“I like snow . . . for the first day or so of it. Then it’s all mucky and gray and it has to be shoveled before it turns to ice.” Snorting, Bilbo leans on Thorin’s arm briefly, companionably. “Well, I suppose it’s best we get a walk or two in, now, before all that happens.”

“Indeed,” Thorin murmurs again, covering Bilbo’s hand on his arm with his own, attempting to warm it. As he squeezes and rubs Bilbo’s fingers, he can sense that fond, intent gaze on him, willing him to gaze back.

“I should have bid you bring gloves, as well as that cloak,” Thorin says, for want of anything else to say, and Bilbo laughs.

“I think I prefer this method of keeping my hands warm, my lord,” he replies softly, covering Thorin’s hand with his other, which is equally chill. Thorin tsks, stopping them both in the middle of the thus far unpopulated road. Though that will change as they get closer to New Dale.

“Perhaps we should turn back here,” he suggests hesitantly, thinking of Bilbo’s fear of strangers and strange places, but not wishing Bilbo to feel as if he’s being coddled because of those fears. “If you are cold—”

“Of  _course_  I’m cold.” Bilbo chuckles, squeezing Thorin’s hand. “I’m  _always_  cold . . . but that doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying our walk. And besides, we’ve not even made it halfway to New Dale!”

“This is true . . . but we don’t have to walk so far or for so long, should you not care to.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo begins, his hand leaving Thorin’s to reach up and brush cold fingers across Thorin’s cheek. This time, Thorin is helpless but to look at Bilbo. Into those wide, fond, intent, yearning eyes, even as that brush becomes a prolonged caress. “I am, somehow,  _outside_. Come further than the battlements where we’re surrounded by your guards.  _I am outside,_  in the fresh air, among the hills and trees. We may even meet others on our road and for once, that thought doesn’t fill me with dread.” Bilbo laughs a little, self-deprecatingly. “I haven’t yet begged you to take me back, despite being cold and tired and yes, a little afraid. I am . . . bearing up under those things well enough to enjoy this lovely countryside and the  _very_  handsome dwarf escorting me through it, silent and distracted though he is.” At this, Thorin blushes and Bilbo’s smile widens. “Do not, I beg you, cater to fears that I am trying my best to overcome. If  _you_  are tired, my king, then I would turn around. But if you are  _not_ , then there is no reason for us to start back so soon. Let us enjoy this walk and each other’s company until you weary of my prattle and shivering.”

Thorin, reaches up to brush his own fingers across Bilbo’s cold cheek, pausing near his mouth as Bilbo leans into his touch with a happy sigh.

“I will never weary of your so-called ‘prattle,’ Master Baggins, and your shivers tempt me into nothing more wearying than wanting to warm you as expediently as possible.” At Bilbo’s gently raised eyebrows, Thorin clears his throat. “A roaring fire and a hot meal would do you as much good, if not more, than walking further away from their source.”

“Perhaps. But I  _miss_  the outdoors, Thorin,” Bilbo says lowly, his eyes suddenly somber. “I miss walking along the road, or even off it, in search of whatever there is to be found in the deep, green places between hills and valleys. I miss . . . being comfortable and fearless outside of the Mountain. Or even  _inside_  the Mountain,” he adds wryly, the right corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smile. “Right now is the closest I’ve come to that state of comfort and fearlessness in some time. Please don’t cut that short just because I’m shivering.”

Searching Bilbo’s eyes, Thorin at last nods, smiling, himself, when Bilbo sighs his relief and turns his face just enough to kiss Thorin’s fingertips without breaking their gazes. The cool, barely-there contact is like the flutter of butterfly wings, and Thorin finds himself catching Bilbo’s chin and tilting his face up even as he leans down.

The hobbit’s lips are soft and chilled under his own, but quickly warming as Thorin presses them firmly and for long moments. “You are brave and strong, my love. I admire this about you—though I wish I could make both bravery and strength unnecessary for you. I wish I could make your woes my own, and carry them for you. I would see you carefree and light of heart. I would see you always . . . happy.”

“I know,” Bilbo whispers on Thorin’s lips, as Thorin had murmured on his. “I would have the same for you, my king. My  _love_.”

At that  _my love_ , Thorin moans softly, capturing Bilbo’s lips with his own, teasing them hungrily and urgently with teeth and tongue till they part. Not that he has to tease for long. Bilbo moves closer, surrendering to the kiss even as Thorin’s tongue chases the sweetness and warmth of his mouth. Even as their arms wind around each other: Thorin’s around Bilbo’s waist, Bilbo’s around Thorin’s neck.

The unfortunate erection, which the chill had thankfully done much to diminish, returns shortly, and Thorin’s hands slide to Bilbo’s hips to hold at least his lower half away . . . though Thorin knows that at this late date,  _Bilbo knows_  that Thorin has gotten and will always get hard from even just their kisses.

But knowing and feeling are two different things, and he does not wish to . . . burden Bilbo with his desires . . . nor tease Bilbo with what cannot, for Bilbo’s own sake, yet be.

But Bilbo twists and swivels his hips away from Thorin’s control and closes the gap between their lower halves, with a soft, satisfied moan even as Thorin groans, loud and most definitely _not_  satisfied. The layers between their bodies suddenly seem obnoxious and unneeded as he presses himself against Bilbo’s stomach, yearning above all else to be closer . . . simply  _closer_. . . .

“My love,” Thorin breaks the kiss to to say, some vestige of his common sense returning to him, but Bilbo closes the brief, humid distance between their mouths with alacrity, kissing Thorin breathless and with a demanding surge of desire that sees  _Bilbo_  controlling their kiss.

Soon, Thorin’s the one surrendering to Bilbo’s desire, his hands sliding ‘round from Bilbo’s waist and under the cloak, to his backside. He holds the eager hobbit flush and tight against him, hands squeezing gently but posessively. In minutes that feel like eternities of torturous pleasure, Bilbo, as hard as he’s ever been in Thorin’s recently gained experience, begins thrusting and rubbing against Thorin’s thigh.

“Make me  _come_ , Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, his kisses wending across Thorin’s cheek to his ear, where he licks and bites Thorin’s ear lobe. Thorin, for his part, grunts and presses his nearly painful erection against Bilbo’s stomach, cursing the cloth between them. “Make us  _both come_.”

Groaning again, Thorin crushes Bilbo to him, breath escaping him in a thick white plume. He opens eyes that are barely capable, in this state, of processing what he sees: road, hills, grass, a small copse of trees, and in the distance well beyond those trees, a turn in the road, and another hill, the city of New Dale. . . .

Before he can even form the thought, Thorin’s hands have shifted to Bilbo’s thighs, pulling them up until Bilbo gets the idea, and wraps his legs around Thorin’s hips and tightens his arms around Thorin’s neck. Then Thorin’s taking them both toward the copse of trees, which is thankfully neither far down nor far off the road.

Grass crunches and crackles under Thorin’s boots when he steps off the road, trying to focus on the colorful, blurry trees ahead. Even as Bilbo bites love-marks into his neck and worries at his ear lobe making happy, wanton little sounds.

It is . . . difficult to reach even that near copse under the delightful assault on his neck and ear. Difficult, yes, but reach it, he does, carrying his love, who weighs no more than a handful of fairy-dust.

And once the light of the day—yet again overcast, as if snow is in the offing before too much longer—has been shuttered by the trees, the filtered light around them gone dim and orange-yellow-red, Thorin puts Bilbo down, even though he wants to hold that small body closer and let it shimmy and shiver against him till they both—

The hobbit almost unwillingly forgoes leaving love-marks on him to look up into his eyes, his breathing as fast and uneven as Thorin’s. He sways shakily, his hands placed on Thorin’s chest to steady himself. His cheeks are rosy with cold or desire or perhaps both. . . .

Then he’s smiling and undoing the clasp of his cloak and stepping back, moving toward the center of their small haven to lay the cloak down like a spread.

Then, with an arch glance for Thorin, he lays himself upon it.

“Lay with me,” he says huskily, holding open his arms to Thorin who, step by step, makes his way toward his love. Toward the breaking of his own word to himself and to Bilbo. This he knows and laments, even as he’s helpless to do other than move toward his greatest temptation, his once famed self-control revealed for the illusion it may have always been. “Let me hold you in my arms, my king, and feel your body atop mine. For I desire this above all else.”

Shivering, Thorin is still helpless to obey Bilbo’s command—Bilbo’s  _desire_. Not when his own matches it so perfectly, so powerfully. He falls to his knees on Bilbo’s soft, fur-lined cloak, and crawls forward, between the hobbit’s spread legs—pausing only to tenderly kiss the hardness distending the front of Bilbo’s trousers—till he’s looking down into Bilbo’s ardent, intent eyes.

“Lay with me, Thorin,” Bilbo says again, his arms wrapping around Thorin’s neck and his legs coming up to bracket Thorin’s thighs. And Thorin—undoing first Bilbo’s fly then his own singlehandedly, before taking them both out and lowering his weight slowly and gently onto Bilbo’s body—does.

He lies with his hobbit and kisses him deeply, stealing warmth and breath and giving the same, thrusting against the hardness straining hotly up to meeting his own. He grasps Bilbo’s cloth-covered thighs and hitches him up tight against his body, grounding turgid flesh together hard and slow, till Bilbo is indeed shaking from something other than the chill that lingers around them even in their temporary shelter. . . .

Till suddenly, Bilbo cries out into their kiss, his body gone taut and still under against Thorin’s, his head suddenly thrown back, his pale throat bared to Thorin’s reverent kisses and gentle love-bites. Thorin grunts as his own fever-hot flesh is made wet with Bilbo’s release—as he now slips and slides more easily against Bilbo’s still half-hard prick.

“Oh,  _Thorin . . . oh_!” Bilbo exclaims breathlessly, his legs clenching tighter around Thorin’s hips, his arms holding Thorin even closer, somehow. Thorin’s own climax is not far off, judging by the tingles at the base of spine and prick, by the molten rush of his blood, and the burning, over-full feeling in his bollocks. He kisses his way up to Bilbo’s lips, tasting once more that sweetness with which he has become familiar, but of which he will never weary. Bilbo’s tongue teases his own languidly, his hips still canting up to meet Thorin’s, thrust for thrust, until Thorin drives his hips down into Bilbo’s  _hard_ , once . . . twice . . . and for a third time, then pinning Bilbo’s body with his weight as he comes in long, burning, sense-erasing pulses.

Through the intense pleasure of it, for some vast, unknowable, almost unbearable span, Bilbo holds him tight with arms and legs, pressing sweet, gentle kisses to Thorin’s lips and murmuring his love.

When his climax at last ends—when Thorin can come no more and consciousness has become tenuous, at best—he collapses on top of Bilbo with another soft grunt, his body limp, leaden, and fiercely a-tingle. Bilbo  _hmm_ s—a  _satisfied hmm_ —and cards his fingers through Thorin’s hair, every so often kissing Thorin’s forehead and squeezing him slightly tighter.

Hours, it seems to Thorin’s addled brain, pass before he can lever himself even slightly off of Bilbo and look down into serene, sated eyes.

“That was wonderful, my king,” Bilbo says quietly, happily, and Thorin, too sated and happy himself to worry overmuch about what they’ve just done and its consequences, leans down to kiss Bilbo softly, losing himself for long minutes in that perfect sweetness.

“Yes, it was, my love,” he murmurs on Bilbo’s lips, aware that this is how their . . . interlude got started: murmuring on each other’s lips. His smile, though small, is ironic. “You are . . . practically impossible to resist.”

Bilbo’s own smile widens against Thorin’s mouth. “Then why is it you keep resisting me, my lord?”

“Because . . . I  _must_.”

Sighing, Bilbo turns it into a brief kiss pressed to the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “You only  _think_ you must,” he insists, but without the disappointment and hurt Thorin would have expected. His voice, if anything, is warm and fond. “I understand that you’re trying to protect me. To keep me from being hurt. But one day soon you’ll see that  _this_ —” Bilbo lifts his hips as much as he’s able, pushing still half-hard flesh against still half-hard flesh, which is enough to cause Thorin to shiver as his body struggles to respond to such delightful stimulus. “ _This_  has nothing to do with what happened to me. They’re as different as night and day. I understand this, now,” he says, laying his head back so that he can see Thorin’s eyes. His own are so clear and certain, Thorin feels both silly and helpless gazing into them. “The difference being that I want you and need you and  _love_  you. How I  _love you_ , Thorin Oakenshield! And every touch  _you_  have ever given  _me_ , has been given in love, and  _will be_  given in love. It’s the love that makes all the difference, you see, and one day, perhaps with Lord Elrond’s help,  _you_  will understand that, too.”

And Bilbo smiles . . . that sweet, trusting—reassuring—smile that makes Thorin’s heart beat faster even as it skips beats. Tears blur his vision even as he hides his face in the shallow junction between Bilbo’s neck and collarbone, holding Bilbo far too tight. But Bilbo does not complain. And soon, Thorin’s entire world is the tears that he would not burden his lover with seeing, and Bilbo’s gentle scent and the kind hands that once more card his hair.

And there they lay, till Thorin’s eyes have at last dried and Bilbo’s shivers have become too pronounced to be ignored any longer.

*

Despite Lord Elrond’s and Bilbo’s insistence that his sleep is poor, Thorin finds it an easy enough thing to doze off when he and Bilbo return from their walk.

He means to eat the lunch that arrives shortly after they do—he truly does, but the long, sleepless night prior catches up with him, and he begins to nod over his mutton and potatoes. He only has enough will to half-heartedly protest when Bilbo takes away his plate and bids him to go lay down, smacking Thorin’s hands away from knife and fork and plate—from the tray, full-stop. His gaze is stern and concerned.

“Alright,” Thorin finally says, standing, yawning, holding out his hand to Bilbo, who is covering Thorin’s plate with a napkin then his own plate—half-empty, something that lifts Thorin’s spirits, as the hobbit’s appetite of late has been . . . nonexistent—with the same. “I will lie down, if you’ll lay down with me.”

Bilbo looks up at him, surprised . . . but in the end leaves off fidgeting about the tray and takes Thorin’s hand, and together they make their way into their bedchamber, without glancing at each other.

Thorin builds up the fire then disrobes quickly, efficiently, not bothering with sleep clothes—as he had for the past few days since the night terror that sundered Bilbo’s memory—as Bilbo, with some hesitation, does the same.

Clothing is left where it’s fallen and, naked, both half-hard—Bilbo shivering and blushing—they look each other over for long moments, before meeting each other’s eyes squarely. . . Bilbo quite shyly, in spite of everything.

Finally Thorin smiles and holds out his hand again, and Bilbo comes to him slowly, but without hesitation. When Thorin’s hand closes around his own, the hobbit lets out a sigh of relief, and together, they make their way to their bed.

When at last they’re settled, and curled in each other’s arms, they lay there, Thorin drowsing almost contentedly, until Bilbo’s hand sweeps under the sheet and down Thorin’s abdomen, and lower still, to grasp his prick with shaking reluctance. Suddenly Thorin blinks his tired eyes open, far from sleepy any longer.

“Is this alright?” Bilbo asks quietly, his lips a feather-light flutter against Thorin’s throat that causes a soft, yearning moan. “Am I doing something you . . . do not want?”

“I would ask you the same, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, thrusting up slowly, also rather reluctantly, into Bilbo’s grasp.

Bilbo snorts, a light gust of air that makes Thorin shiver pleasantly. “Never. But my lord, I know you’re tired after last night . . . and I would not push where  _I_  am not welcome—especially after you were already kind enough to lay with me earlier—”

Thorin holds Bilbo closer and kisses the top of his head. “What happened during our walk was . . .  _not_  at my sufferance, Bilbo Baggins. I wanted—I  _want_  you, too. My desire for you remains unslaked, I must admit, even for having had you, after a fashion. It always will. I will  _never_ , despite what passes for my self-control, have enough of you.  _Never_.”

Sighing—another relieved sigh—Bilbo kisses Thorin’s jaw, then down his throat, to his chest, shifting about so that he’s half on top of Thorin.

“ _Bilbo_ ,” Thorin breathes as the hobbit’s teeth close on one nipple, then the other, keen but playful bites interspersed with lashings of tongue and gentle suction. Bilbo’s hand, grown certain and demanding, now, throws back the sheet then moves on Thorin with firm, sure strokes, till he’s fully hard and erect—not a terribly long span of time, either . . . it’s as if their interlude in the copse of trees did not even happen—and aiding those strokes with thrusts that are still slow but powerful.

They both watch Bilbo caress and stroke Thorin’s prick, Thorin’s breathing becoming a quick, arrhythmic stutter at the sight of his love’s pale, clever hand on his red, fever-hot flesh, until with a warning groan he comes for the second time that day, his release fountaining out of him nonetheless, to land in spatters on his abdomen, stomach, and chest.

Then Bilbo’s shifting around once again, kissing and licking his way down Thorin’s sternum—before Thorin’s even come to his senses enough to realize he’s done coming—his tongue lapping delicately at each spatter it comes across. Yet even that light flicker of tongue is nearly torture for Thorin’s spent, sensitive body. Till finally he pulls Bilbo back up from his task, so the hobbit’s looking down into his eyes solemnly, his own vulnerable and hopeful. A pink tip of tongue comes out to swipe Bilbo’s lips nervously and Thorin quite suddenly wishes to take those lips in a kiss, and taste himself on them. Taste and taste till the bitter salt of his release is gone and there’s nothing but Bilbo’s customary sweetness to be had. . . .

“You will not deny me this ever again,” Bilbo says quietly, and it’s half-question, half-command. Thorin sighs and reaches up, brushing Bilbo’s soft cheek with his index finger. Bilbo leans into the touch, but does not look away. Does not let  _Thorin_  look away.

“If . . . I could be certain that it does not harm you to lay with me like this—if being with me so did not cause you night terrors—” Thorin starts with a voice that shakes and cracks, as he finally allows himself to remember the direct consequences of these . . . moments of passion. And he is mightily ashamed of and exasperated with himself. Dismayed at the lack of control and honor his happily tingling-buzzing body represents. But he falls silent when Bilbo shakes his head.

“Being with you never has. It is  _never_  you, my love,” he whispers with that same breath-taking certainty with which he’d once declared he knew Thorin would never hurt him. “It is not  _you_ who haunts my sleep and disturbs my dreams. It is  _not you_  who reminds me of that which I have forgotten.”

Thorin pulls Bilbo closer, till their foreheads touch. When next he speaks, his voice still shakes and cracks. “I would not harm you again for all the wealth of my kingdom. Or so I tell myself . . . and every time prove myself the worst kind of liar.”

“ _No_ , Thorin. What we feel—what we  _do_  is  _natural and right_. I feel down in the depths of my soul that it’s right, and I  _know_  you do, too. That is why we keep ending up exactly like  _this_. Because we are  _meant_  to. If only you would  _trust to that_ —trust  _me_ —” Bilbo heaves a frustrated sigh, cutting himself off. “If I agree to speak of this matter with Lord Elrond and seek his advice, will you heed it? Will you, if nothing else, lay with me like this when the desire is upon us, if  _Lord Elrond_  advises us that nothing harmful will come of it?”

Blushing, Thorin eventually nods—though he silently acknowledges to himself that such permission, such approval of them following their desire is wishful-thinking, to be indulged in only for the moment, for Bilbo’s sake—and receives a thorough kiss for his agreement. “Though it is no easy thing knowing that a stranger—an  _elven lord_ —is advising us on . . . how we choose to express our love.” Indeed, it’d been beyond uncomfortable to listen to Bilbo recount their attempts at lovemaking to Lord Elrond. To hear their desires and deeds spoken of with such candor and openness to another had made Thorin squirm . . . even though that other was listening not with prurience, but with an attention borne of a desire to help and heal.

Thorin sighs again, and Bilbo’s smile is wry. “You do not like the necessity, but at least you will believe  _him_  if he says that us lying together like this is not harming me. At least you can trust  _his_ word.” His voice is soft and matter-of-fact. Gone or hidden is the hurt that might have underlain such a statement even a day ago. There is only a calm acceptance of that which he realizes he cannot change.

And there’s nothing for Thorin to say—indeed, how can one gainsay the truth when it is put so plainly?—nothing for him to do but hold his hobbit closer again.  _Kiss him_  again and again, sucking away all traces of himself till only sweetness remains. Till Bilbo’s straddled his thigh and is rubbing against it frantically, moaning high and desperate in his throat, for completion.

Pushing megrims, worries, and his nagging conscience from his mind—not as difficult a thing to do when he is so overwhelmed by Bilbo’s passion—Thorin rolls them over and, when Bilbo’s legs wrap around his hips, clutches at Bilbo’s thighs for a few moments before sliding one hand underneath and between them, brushing, then rubbing, then tugging on the strip of thin, incredibly sensitive skin behind Bilbo’s bollocks.

It is not long before Bilbo comes with his head thrown back once more, a breathless, wavering cry on his lips and tears in his wide, but unseeing eyes. His arms clutch at Thorin tightly enough to choke, though Thorin does not notice this, focused as he is on the pulse at Bilbo’s throat, which beats wildly under his worshipful lips; the closeness of his fingers to the small pucker that leads to Bilbo’s core; and the wet heat of Bilbo’s release on his stomach.

Removing his willful fingers before they can explore any further, Thorin kisses his way up to Bilbo’s mouth and murmurs, without knowing he’s going to: “Stay with me, my love. Do not fall asleep.” And he kisses Bilbo slowly, lovingly, till Bilbo kisses him back—at first without coordination, but then with increasing surety and coherence, his soft, near-mindless moans becoming helpless laughs.

“I would . . . bid you do the exact opposite . . . my lord,” he pants finally, and Thorin smiles.

“And  _I_  would waste as few of my hours with you as possible on  _sleep_ , Master Baggins.”

Bilbo huffs out another breathless laugh then takes a few deep, apparently steadying breaths. “But dinner is not for another five hours, and I must go meet with Lord Elrond in one. Even if it were safe for me to sleep it would not be  _wise_  to do so. You, on the other hand, my king, have several hours in which to rest.” He looks up into Thorin’s eyes playfully, but still half-serious. “Will you rest if I tell you a story?”

This time Thorin’s the one to laugh. “I am no child, Master Baggins, to be lulled by a good story!”

“Well, I don’t know how  _good_  my stories are . . . but at least they’re new. To  _you_ , anyway.”

Thorin snorts. “Even as a lad, stories never sent me to sleep unless I was very ill or they were _very_  boring.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo says, smiling and nudging Thorin so that he rolls them over once more. When Bilbo is again in Thorin’s arms and lying on Thorin’s chest, he sighs happily and begins speaking quietly, almost sonorously:

“ _Troll sat alone, on his seat of old stone,  
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone. . . ._ "

*

“My lord? My lord, you must awake. It is nearly seven.”

Thorin grumbles and rolls over toward the voice, feeling for Bilbo’s slight frame—shrugging off the seductive grasp of sleep when he cannot embrace his lover’s body to pull it against his own—

—only to find himself staring up into Bilbo’s smiling eyes. Thorin smiles back and sits up just as Bilbo sits down at the edge of the bed. He’s once more wearing his traveling clothes and cloak, and there’s a slight chill radiating off him.

Rubbing his eyes, Thorin pulls the hobbit closer, into his arms to warm him. Bilbo goes with only a moment’s hesitation, sighing contentedly as Thorin’s arms close around him.

“Did I fall asleep?”

“You most certainly did,” Bilbo says smugly, and Thorin chuckles.

“That must’ve been a  _very boring_  story you told. . . .”

Bilbo whaps Thorin’s arm and Thorin laughs sleepily, squeezing his love tighter. “Well, it worked, boring or not. You were snoring before I finished my tale.” Bilbo sounds quite pleased with himself, and Thorin is quite pleased with  _that_.

Yawning, he leans back to look into Bilbo’s eyes as he remembers the reason for Bilbo’s lingering chill. “How was your walk with Lord Elrond?” he asks as calmly, as nonchalantly as possible.

“It was . . . interesting,” Bilbo says finally, his smile turning wry, but a bit mystified, as well. “We spoke mostly of my life in the Shire. If nothing else, I think Lord Elrond would fancy a visit there, at some point.” Laughing, Bilbo shrugs. “He wanted to know about my childhood, of all things. I spent hours talking about nothing but growing up in the Shire and my parents and friends—nothing I would have thought was relevant to, well,  _anything_.”

“The ways of elves are indeed strange. But never, I find, without  _some_  reason behind them,” Thorin adds, thinking that even  _Thranduil_ , convoluted and twisty as his mind had always been, had always had  _reasons_  for doing—or not doing—things.

“Strange, yes. But I told him whatever he wished to know. And . . . I  _also_  managed, toward the end of our chat, to bring up  _our_  . . . situation to him.” Bilbo smiles and Thorin’s breath catches even as he remembers what their  _situation_  is, and blushes. “I asked him whether or not we should continue to pleasure each other as we have been, or if we should stop, to await a more . . . appropriate time.”

“And? What was his advice?” Thorin asks with gruff impatience that only barely masks his anxiety and ambivalence at hearing the elven lord’s opinion.

Bilbo leans up to kiss Thorin’s lips teasingly, till Thorin’s anxiety, at least, is lost to a flush of desire. “His advice was to listen to our hearts, Thorin. He said he could not tell us when the right time was to seek whatever pleasures we wish to. That  _only we_  would know when the right times have arrived. Though he  _did_  assure me that my night terrors are  _not_  brought about by us touching each other and enjoying such pleasure as we’ve shared.”

Letting out a breath that he’s been holding for . . . at least two months, Thorin brushes Bilbo’s nose with his own—the tip of it is still cold—unable to adequately express his relief and joy over not being the cause of his lover’s worst nightmares. And he wishes to ask, more than anything, when Bilbo thinks the right time will be, since Thorin has been rendered uncertain, at best, by his desire  _have_  Bilbo, and the seemingly  _conflicting_  desire to  _first do no harm_  to his love. . . .

But then his mind and heart latch onto something even more important. “Then  _what_  brings about your night terrors, that we may address the matter as swiftly as possible?” he asks, ready at long last to see his love’s sleep and dreams be free of past horrors. But Bilbo’s smile slips and he looks away for a moment. His eyes, when they once more meet Thorin’s, are measuring and reticent.

“He says . . . the night terrors are the buried memories of what happened trying to come to the surface of my mind. Memories waiting to be remembered and  _acknowledged_  by my waking mind. That the waking part of my mind is still trying to force them away while the sleeping part is trying to bring them forth, and that because of that . . . my mind is divided and fighting with itself, and my memory is scattered and patchy. Jumbled.” Bilbo sighs, shaking his head. “Lord Elrond says that as long as these particular memories remain buried, I will always be so divided and jumbled. And it will only get worse as time goes on. Until every time I close my eyes to rest . . . I will experience night terrors.”

Thorin frowns, reaching up to caress Bilbo’s cheek as he remembers what Gandalf had said the morning after they’d escaped the goblins’ clutches . . . only to run straight into Azog’s. Remembers that Gandalf had said much the same thing Bilbo is saying now, and that he, Thorin, had been all for Bilbo’s memories of being violated by Azog  _staying_  buried. Due to what he now realizes is his own cowardice at the idea of facing exactly what he and Bilbo must  _now_  face. “Then there is . . . nothing for it  _but_  to remember.”

“The sooner, the better, he thinks.” Bilbo sighs again, shaking his head. “He says the hard part won’t be getting me to remember, after all, but the incorporation of those memories into who I am after so long of keeping them quaranteened from my waking mind.”

After a few silent moments, Thorin kisses Bilbo’s forehead tenderly. “Know that I will be here to help you. I will be ever by your side, no matter what.”

“I know, Thorin. And I am grateful for that, but I wish. . . .”

“So do I, my love.”

Sighing a third time, Bilbo settles in Thorin’s embrace once more.

Long minutes pass in this way, until Bilbo finally sits back out of the embrace, standing up. His face is composed and determinedly cheerful. “Well! At any rate, it was an interesting walk! One that led us right up until dinner, practically.” He claps his hands together briskly and Thorin blinks.

“Is it so late?” he asks around another yawn and Bilbo’s smile becomes genuine and fond.

“That it is, my king.”

“I feel as if I slept mere minutes.” Thorin groans and pushes himself to the edge of the bed. Swings his legs over the side, and stands up, stretching and yawning again, eyes squeezed shut for a few moments. When he opens them once again, it is to see Bilbo, paused in the midst of taking off his cloak, staring at him as one gobsmacked, eyes wide and pupils dilated.

Thorin’s smile is slow and lazy. “You ravish me with your eyes, my love,” he murmurs, and Bilbo, shaking himself, drags his gaze away from Thorin’s slightly erect prick with obvious effort, and meets Thorin’s eyes wryly, once more.

“If we had the time, I would see  _you_  clothed in  _my_  kisses—I would worship you with my mouth, and revel in the taste of you,” Bilbo says with a candor that sees Thorin’s prick begin to show unmistakable interest.

Bilbo’s gaze does not miss this, and he sighs yet again, wistfully, finally swinging his cloak off his shoulders and dropping it absently on the pile of clothing in front of the guarderobe. “Oh, my king, if we but had the  _time_. . . .”

“How much time  _do_  we have?” Thorin asks, refraining from touching himself with a control that surprises him, after this afternoon—after just receiving the news that their laying together was  _not_ the reason for Bilbo’s night terrors—not that he needs much more than thoughts of Bilbo, or the hungry gaze currently being cast his way, to render him almost instantly hard and aching with it, whereas he needs far more control than he’s ever exercised to resist relieving that ache.

Bilbo chuckles regretfully, rocking back and forth on his heels and toes twice. “Enough time to wash up, dress, then  _run_ , not walk, to Lord Elrond’s chambers. And even then, we’ll probably still be a few—what’re you  _doing_ — _Thorin_ —” he stammers then gasps, eyes widening further as Thorin approaches him with almost grim determination, only to snatch him up and swing him into his arms.

“Lateness is the prerogative of kings when in their own demesne,” he informs Bilbo, carrying him back to their bed. Bilbo opens his mouth to protest several times as they go, but Thorin soon lays him gently down without a protest having been lodged. And he simply stands there, arms akimbo, staring at his love and waiting for whatever reasons Bilbo would give against them taking the time to satisfy their desires at  _this_  particular time.

Finally Bilbo once more drags his voracious eyes away from Thorin’s prick and back to his waiting gaze.

“Well, if it’s a  _royal prerogative_ ,” he capitulates in a breathless rush as he scrambles out of trousers then struggles with waistcoat and shirt. And Thorin grins, and sits on the bed, helping him with steady, but eager hands.

Shortly thereafter, in the main chamber, the clock chimes seven.

“Royal prerogative,” Thorin grits out as a reminder, when the small hands gentling the muscles of his thighs slow to a near-stop. Then he’s sliding past Bilbo’s lips and over his tongue, only to feel those lips curve around him in a smile and that tongue trace the head of his prick with obvious relish.

The smile, at least—turned up to the ceiling though it is—Thorin returns without reluctance, secure in the knowledge that  _this_ , at least, will not harm his hobbit. That this not-so-small pleasure is a safe one, one that they can share in perhaps as often as they like.

Then Bilbo’s tongue is teasing the slit of his prick, lapping greedily at the wetness that wells out. He hums happily around Thorin, for whom all coherent thought goes spinning away into the aether. His fists ball and clench in the sheets, and—

—and dinner is, for the next little while, anyway, quite forgotten.

 


	11. Dawn of a New Age 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The healing continues. Lord Elrond opens an old wound of his own. It gets a bit "Romeo & Juliet" up in this bitch. Thorin gets some sound advice. Plus, I borrowed a little from Rowlings, and quite obviously. Consider it an homage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I use other people’s hard work and imagination to exorcise and exercise my demons. Alas, they’re still here, however. . . .  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Thorin wakes with a soft, rested sigh when the clock chimes in the main room. Then he smiles upon realizing that for once, he has nowhere to go and nothing to do but  _be_  with his favorite person.  
  
That favorite person is currently curled up in Thorin’s embrace, a little spoon to Thorin’s larger, broader spoon, and sleeping soundly. Calmly.  
  
Even snoring, just a little.  
  
He is, for at least most of the next month, free of night terrors.  
  
Smile widening, Thorin buries his face in Bilbo Baggins’ sweet-smelling hair and kisses the back of his head. He very gently squeezes the hobbit tighter, not wanting to awaken Bilbo out of a sound,  _good_  sleep. The fifth such sleep he’s had since Lord Elrond arrived one week ago. Also the fifth such sleep he’s had since Lord Elrond, over a somewhat late dinner—and at this memory, Thorin grins as he contemplates the so-called  _royal prerogative_  that had driven him and his love to keep Lord Elrond waiting till nearly eight, for a dinner that was supposed to start at seven—had presented Bilbo and Thorin each with a small glass phial of some ruby-red liquid that’d clung to the sides like a colored syrup.  
  
“One  _very_  small sip daily, to be taken at bedtime, when you’re absolutely  _ready_  to fall asleep, for this concoction will see you sleeping within five minutes of taking it. Perhaps even faster than that, since you are both already so weary,” the elven lord had said somberly, that patient, amused look leaving his eyes for the first time since Thorin and Bilbo had shown up, clean, nicely-dressed, and out of breath (but still holding hands) at his door, the reason for their lateness no doubt stamped all over their flushed, guilty faces. “And it will not only put you to sleep, Master Baggins—for I know it is not trouble  _falling asleep_ , which you have—but it will render that sleep dreamless. In fact, that is what this . . . sedative is known as among my people: _Tel Kaima Avaene Olos_  . . . The Dreamless Sleep.”  
  
Bilbo, frowning at the small phial in his hand had said the words aloud, almost exactly as Lord Elrond had said them, causing the elven lord to smile and nod graciously. “Indeed, Master Baggins. And that was handsomely said. You almost make me homesick.”  
  
Looking up, Bilbo had blushed. “Oh, go on. My prowess at languages is only middling, at best. You should hear me butcher Khuzdul! It’s a wonder I haven’t been driven out of here by a mob of angry dwarves!”  
  
Lord Elrond had turned a quite surprised gaze on Thorin, who’d blushed and made to study his own phial of Dreamless Sleep. Even in Lord Elrond’s bright room, it was the color of rubies left in a near lightless place, and almost too pretty to drink.  
  
“It was one of my first decrees that Master Baggins be allowed to study the language of his home. I would not have him be dependent on  _anyone_  in Erebor for even so simple a thing as translating a conversation,” Thorin had said quietly, though a bit defensively. Then he’d sighed, meeting Lord Elrond’s yet-again-amused eyes, and smiled wryly. “Besides, if an elven lord can know the language of my people, then why not a hobbit?  _Dwarf-friend_ , and  _Savior-of-the-King_ , no less?”  
  
“Indeed,” Lord Elrond had raised his goblet of red wine—Cook had clearly sent someone into New Dale for this, since dwarves rarely bothered with  _wine_  of any color—and taken a sip. “You are, if I may say, a breath of fresh air, King Thorin.”  
  
Uncertain how to take  _that_ , Thorin had finally allowed his smile to return when Bilbo had placed a hand on his and squeezed, his eyes practically glowing, that quiet but powerful light shining from him like an evening star . . . something to comfort and guide even on the darkest night. . . .  
  
Thorin had turned his hand so that it was holding Bilbo’s back and gazed into those lovely eyes for long moments before bringing Bilbo’s hand to his lips for a brief kiss. Bilbo had colored rather enticingly—and so soon after at last losing his flush at their late arrival and its cause—and smiled.  
  
“At any rate,” Lord Elrond had said, clearing his throat discreetly, but still looking far too amused for Thorin’s comfort. “The Dreamless Sleep will allow you both to get very-much-needed rest. And, if taken as advised, there’s enough in each phial to last you for a month, give or take a few days.”  
  
“And if  _not_  taken as advised?” Thorin had asked, one eyebrow quirked curiously as he studied the Dreamless Sleep once again. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen Lord Elrond’s own eyebrow quirk, too, but not in amusement.  
  
“Let us say that, if not taken as advised, one would rather shortly find oneself sleeping for a good deal longer than planned.” Taking another sip of his wine, Lord Elrond had sighed. “Even three small sips is enough to place one in a comatose state that is . . . difficult to reverse. Any more than that leads to the final sleep . . . the one all mortals must eventually take.”  
  
“And you would bid us  _take this_  potion?” Thorin had demanded, suddenly angry—and frightened—at the idea of his love imbibing such a dangerous sleeping aide. “You would have us depend on  _this_  for our rest?”  
  
“My king,” Bilbo had said softly, squeezing the larger hand still holding his own. When Thorin had turned his gaze upon the hobbit, Bilbo was smiling his sweet, reassuring smile . . . the one that made it impossible for Thorin’s anger to remain, whether righteous or not. “It’s a sedative. All such medicines carry that danger . . . just not quite as potently. Take too much and it can harm, or even kill. Even in the Shire, though we have no great healers, we have such medicines. Yet as I have said, not as powerful as Dreamless Sleep. And our healers—whom we call  _doctors_ —only rarely prescribe them. And they do not share the recipes for these potions and tonics with anyone who isn’t their ‘prentice. Do we not have such things in Erebor? I know we must.”  
  
Frowning, Thorin had nodded reluctantly. “We do have such healers and such medicines, aye. But as you’ve said, none so strong as  _this_.” He’d raised the phial and turned his solemn, measuring gaze upon a still sanguine Lord Elrond. “I will not have Master Baggins take this without testing it first, myself. I’ll try it tonight, and when I wake up in the morning— _if_  I wake up in the morning—and declare it safe,  _then_  and only then will he take this so-called  _Dreamless Sleep_.”  
  
“Thorin—” Bilbo had started to say, sighing, but Thorin had cut him off with a stern, stony glance before returning his gaze to Lord Elrond.  
  
“I will not be moved on this matter,” he’d said flatly. That eyebrow had quirked again and Lord Elrond had sighed once more. Though he hadn’t seemed terribly surprised at either Thorin’s words or his overall reaction.  
  
“It is . . . unusual for a king to be a poison-taster for his subject.” Taking another sip of his wine, Lord Elrond had trained his intent gaze on Thorin’s hand, which was now squeezing Bilbo’s possessively, protectively. “There are no doubt many in Erebor who would not see their king’s life put at such a risk, infinitesimal as it is.”  
  
“If this sedative works as intended, neither of us have anything to worry about,” Thorin had said grimly. Then, turning a much-softened gaze upon Bilbo, who looked quite worried, Thorin had kissed his hand again—the palm, this time. “And neither do you, my love.”  
  
“But I always worry about you, my lord,” Bilbo had whispered, looking down at his barely-touched dinner with troubled eyes.  
  
From there, the conversation was—wisely, Thorin thought—turned to other matters by Lord Elrond. Mainly a hashing out and agreeing upon of a schedule of daily walks and talks over the next fortnight for Lord Elrond and Bilbo—and even a few for Lord Elrond and Thorin—as well as near nightly dinners for the three of them.  
  
And, after dinner ended, after pleasantries had been exchanged and good-nights had been said, and Thorin had escorted Bilbo back to their rooms . . . after they’d sought newly guilt-and-fear-free pleasure in one another’s arms, Thorin had taken a small sip—barely enough to wet his tongue with cloying, syrupy sweetness that was a seeming mockery of the simple, honest sweetness of Bilbo’s lips—of Dreamless Sleep.  
  
Bilbo, eyes wide and still worried, had taken the phial and stoppered it once more, placing it on his night table.  
  
Then he was leaning over Thorin and pressing his lips firmly, the taste of his own lips unfortunately lost under the lingering stickiness of the Dreamless Sleep.  
  
“I love you, Thorin Oakenshield,” he’d murmured into the kiss, and Thorin had smiled, and opened his eyes and mouth to say it back . . . only to find Bilbo gone and their bedchamber much-darkened.  
  
Bolting up and yawning, he’d looked around the room, mildly alarmed, only to find Bilbo asleep next to him, cocooned in sheets and blankets despite wearing one of Thorin’s thick tunics, as always, but surprisingly  _not_  shivering.  
  
The fire was low, where a moment before, it’d been roaring.  
  
 _Did I . . . sleep? Have I slept?_  Thorin had wondered, yawning again and shaking his head as if to clear it of fuzziness, though his thoughts felt clear and calm in a way they hadn’t in some time. Since . . . farther back than Thorin cared to remember, for it pained him to do so . . . said times having been in an Erebor where Thror ruled, and  _Smaug_  was a name yet unknown by any save the most dedicated and elderly of lore-keepers and librarians. . . .  
  
It was as he shook his head that he noticed the clock chiming . . . eight times.  
  
Apparently he  _had_  slept. For at least ten hours.  
  
And Bilbo—  
  
Bilbo was asleep, too. . . .  
  
“ _No, no, no, my love_ ,” Thorin had muttered in fear-drenched denial, placing his hands on his love’s shoulder and arm, and turning him over onto his back. Bilbo had gone boneslessly, his face set in a gentle smile, and his own stoppered phial of Dreamless Sleep clutched loosely in his left hand.  
  
Shaking him had  _not_  been enough to wake him, nor were kisses, or other such amorous touches.  
  
 _Nothing woke him._  
  
After long— _eternal_  minutes, torn between fear of the sedative not working—or working  _too well_ —Thorin had placed the phial on Bilbo’s night table, next to his own and curled up around the hobbit, holding him tight and whispering his love, pleading with Bilbo, with Durin—with any who had the power to hear him and heed his call for aide—for Bilbo to  _wake up_  . . . even if he woke up  _screaming_. . . .  
  
And Bilbo  _had awoken_ , not long after. And he was  _not_  screaming. His breathing was slow and even, one moment—the next, a sharp, deep breath was taken and let go as the hobbit sighed and stretched in Thorin’s arms.  
  
He’d barely finished doing so, in fact, before an  _incensed_  Thorin was straddling him, pinning Bilbo’s hands to his sides.  
  
“You took it,” he’d growled, glaring into Bilbo’s startled eyes. “After I bade you  _not_ , you  _took it_!”  
  
Bestartlement had been replaced not by guilt, but by fondness. Which only angered Thorin more. “Thorin, I—”  
  
“Must I now  _bind you_  hand and foot to make certain you do not harm yourself when I am not present to stop you?” he’d demanded, rage and relief warring within him, along with the remnants of his earlier dread and fear. And so he hadn’t been aware of how tightly he was squeezing Bilbo’s wrists until the hobbit winced and tried to pull them free. And even so, that awareness was only in Thorin's periphery. “I  _told you_  I would test it first, to make certain it was safe! What were you  _thinking_?!”  
  
Bilbo had closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them, they were tired, though markedly less tired than usual. Clear and focused in a way they rarely were, of late.  
  
“I was thinking,” he began lowly, “that either the sedative would work exacly as Lord Elrond said, and that for once, we would sleep together and wake up together, in our bed, in each other’s arms. Or that the sedative would  _not_  work, and we’d sleep together . . . and wake up together, in the afterlife, in each other’s arms.” Bilbo had sighed and smiled his defenseless, guileless smile. “Either way, we would sleep together and wake up together.  _Always together_.”  
  
And in the face of that plain honesty, Thorin’s anger had punctured and deflated like an old water-skin.  
  
“I could’ve  _died_ , and  _you’d_  have died, too,” he’d said quietly, his voice shaking as he’d freed Bilbo’s wrists—there would be vivid bracelets of bruises there for days, and Thorin would flinch every time he noticed them—to cup the beloved face in his hands.  
  
“But we  _didn’t_  die. It was exactly as Lord Elrond said. And even had it not been, I would have happily followed you to the ends of the Earth and beyond, my lord . . . my  _love_ ,” Bilbo had said, that unique and compelling light beaming from him like sunshine, warm and golden. He was _happy_ , and  _brilliant_  with it. It wasn’t in Thorin to trample such a lovely and rarely-seen thing. “Through death and hellfire, if need be. I would suffer  _anything_  to be with you.”  
  
“Don’t say that.” Thorin had leaned down to kiss Bilbo’s forehead, and Bilbo had laughed, wriggling playfully under Thorin’s weight. His body was warm and lithe, and Thorin had quite suddenly  _wanted_  him.  _Desperately_. Could not stop covering his face in kisses or pressing his body down against Bilbo’s. “You have already suffered enough because of me.”  
  
“And I would suffer it  _again_ , for you.  _Anything_  for you. . . .” Bilbo’s eyes had been so sincere . . . so humblingly, plainly  _earnest_ , that Thorin had felt small and unworthy in the face of such devotion.  
  
“But never again will you have to.  _Never_.” Thorin had forced away his feelings of unworthiness, pledged his own devotion silently, and caught Bilbo’s lips in a kiss that hadn’t broken until Thorin sat up to toss his old tunic in the direction of the guarderobe. Then he kissed his way down Bilbo’s neck and chest, pausing briefly to tease both nipples with teeth and tongue, before continuing on his journey down Bilbo’s body as the hobbit urged him on with  _yes_ es and pleas that sounded like Thorin’s name. . . .  
  
And so that morning had gone.  
  
And so had every morning gone since then . . . minus the unpleasant discussion, of course. From that day forward, it was simple pillow-chat that bookended their loving.  
  
And Thorin had gone back to holding Court and petitions, though, at Lord Elrond’s suggestion (and Bilbo’s  _strong_  insistence), only five days in every seven, and with the resumption of the lunch-breaks Bilbo had started.  
  
And Bilbo had once more taken up the task of lunch-bearer. Thorin had worried for him the first two days of that, but when Bilbo had seemed like his old self, braving the crowds of petitioners—not to mention the crowds in the main dining hall and kitchen—to bring Thorin, Fili, and Kili lunch, his fears began to slowly ebb, replaced by pride in his hobbit.  
  
And always Bilbo shared their lunch-breaks, even if, for whatever reason, he did not bring lunch for himself.  
  
All of Bilbo’s afternoons since that first have been spent with Lord Elrond, walking the halls of Erebor and the battlements, speaking all the while. Of what they speak, Bilbo does not go into with  _Thorin_ , though some evenings he returns to their rooms smiling, and other times, he does not, seeming more thoughtful, than  _un_ happy.  
  
Evenings are then usually spent with Thorin, at Lord Elrond’s table, discussing many things, most of them not related in any way that Thorin can find, to Bilbo’s current woes. But even as such, the conversation and company seems to be doing Bilbo some good, for his laugh comes more freely these days, and sounds more genuine. . . .  
  
Startled out of his long reverie, Thorin suddenly groans as Bilbo squirms back against him, his backside pressed tantalizingly— _demandingly_ —against Thorin’s hardened prick.  
  
“My love, you tease me,” Thorin breathes, said breath soft and stuttered. "You tease me  _most unmercifully_."  
  
Bilbo chuckles, shifting about a bit until Thorin’s erection drags down past his backside, to his pressed-together thighs. “That, I do, my lord.”  
  
Thorin groans again, pushing himself against and into the warm divide between Bilbo’s legs, nuzzling Bilbo’s nape when the hobbit hisses and hitches back toward him, murmuring encouragement.  
  
(This method of pleasuring each other they had discovered three days ago, and since, have done little else besides with their free time.)  
  
Thorin drapes his arm over Bilbo’s waist and pulls him even closer, his thrusts slow and hard into the tight, hot almost-channel created by Bilbo’s thighs. He can nearly, though not quite, pretend he’s inside Bilbo at last, held by sweet, welcoming, heat and driving himself relentlessly toward Bilbo’s core—toward the small spot inside Bilbo that would make his body explode almost literally in pleasure. . . .  
  
Very nearly Thorin can pretend. And for now, for this moment . . .  _very nearly_  is enough.  
  
“I love you,” he whispers, his hand sliding down Bilbo’s chest and stomach, thence to take him in hand and stroke him to full hardness. Bilbo’s breathing turns into panting, interspersed with low, throaty moans. “More than anything on this Earth.”  
  
“As do I . . . oh,  _Thorin, I . . . I love you, so much_. . . .”  
  
Then nothing more is said for a long while. Longer than usual, as this is Thorin’s first of two days off from being the king. He has nowhere to be and no one else to be there with but his love, and he intends to spend this morning—this entire  _day_ —behaving accordingly.  
  


*

  
  
“You are looking well.”  
  
Thorin raises an eyebrow at Lord Elrond, who’s bowing slightly. Then Thorin’s returning that bow graciously, easily.  
  
“Thank you, Lord Elrond. As are you. I am . . . glad that your time in Erebor is agreeing with you,” he replies and receives that amused smile in turn. The one that might have, once upon a time, made him feel condescended to, but now makes him feel rather amused at this newly-discovered, diplomatic side of himself.  
  
“It is, indeed. The wonders of Erebor have not diminished, in spite of everything that has transpired. And her people are much as I remember from times past: resilient and honest.” Lord Elrond’s smile turns a bit wry and Thorin laughs.  
  
“’Honest,’ eh? I take that to mean  _blunt almost to the point of rudeness_.” Snorting, Thorin leads them out of the Mountain and onto the main battlements. The guards thereon all snap to attention. “Ever have my people been known for that bluntness.”  
  
“Indeed,” Lord Elrond agrees without rancor.  
  
This, then, on the second of Thorin’s days off, begins his first one-on-one meeting with the elven lord.  
  
It is also the first afternoon since his arrival, that Bilbo will  _not_  be spending with the elven lord, but instead in the library, in his pursuit of fluency in Khuzdul. Thorin spares a moment to worry about Bilbo, alone in a place where he hasn’t been in so long, and wants to immediately rush to his hobbit’s side, despite having  _just left_  his hobbit’s side, after hours spent rendering said hobbit as limp as a wet towel and as dazed as any who’d spent most of a morning and part of an afternoon being pleasured with devoted hands and mouth and, after a fashion, prick.  
  
Smiling a little, now, Thorin has his doubts that Bilbo will even bother with the library, considering his . . . state when Thorin had kissed him good-bye and good-bye and good-bye. . . .  
  
“Your thoughts linger on Master Baggins,” Lord Elrond notes politely, and Thorin looks up at him, fighting off a blush, but not the ironic smile that curves his mouth.  
  
“As ever they do,” Thorin admits, shrugging and looking down at his feet as he walks. After two days of wearing neither crown nor robe, he’s not looking forward to putting either on again, the former always listing forward till it’s seemingly ready to slide off his head, the latter dragging ridiculously behind him like an adoring puppy.  
  
“He has also been looking well, lately.  _Doing_  well,” Lord Elrond amends, sounding pleased. “He is almost, I would say, ready to. . . .”  
  
“Ready to  _what_?” Thorin asks when Lord Elrond trails off, though he already knows. What else have they been preparing for, with all this Dreamless Sleep and all these walks and talks,  _but_ Bilbo being ready to  _remember_? “Isn’t it a bit soon for that?”  
  
Sighing, Lord Elrond links his hands behind his back. “It may not be soon enough, actually. But I would not set Master Baggins to remember such torment without the benefit of a restful span, spent calming and strengthening mind and spirit to face such things.”  
  
Frowning, Thorin gazes up at Lord Elrond again, a suspicion forming in his mind. “Have you told Master Baggins of your plans to help him remember so soon?”  
  
The look Lord Elrond turns on Thorin is opaque, unreadable. “I have told him, from the outset, of my timeframe, so there would be no . . . unpleasant surprises. I believe that by the end of this next week, it it would be . . . prudent to begin pursuing those memories that are buried.”  
  
“Perhaps you might have kept  _me_  so informed, as well.” Thorin sniffs and glares directly ahead of him, only to hear Lord Elrond sigh softly.  
  
“I . . . had thought that  _Master Baggins_  would.”  
  
Thorin winces, and suddenly wonders why Bilbo hadn’t. As far as Thorin knows, they do not keep secrets from each other. . . .  
  
“Perhaps it is that he did not wish to cast a pall over his time with you, and set you to worrying about the inevitable.” When Thorin looks up again, surprised, Lord Elrond smiles empathetically. “You are not the only one in your relationship who would protect the one he loves at all costs.”  
  
“No,” Thorin says heavily, after a few minutes and a turn around the battlements. “I suppose not. And such a fine job I’ve done of protecting him, thus far!” Thorin snorts again, ruefully. “Of the two of us, the only one who has been a successful protector is Bilbo Baggins. Though at such a terrible cost to himself. . . !”  
  
“And yet . . . he does not regret that choice. Nor would he, had he the chance, go back and rewrite the past. He has made his sacrifice and is, in his own way, at peace with it,” Lord Elrond murmurs.  
  
“ _At peace_?” Thorin laughs, a harsh, mirthless bark. “Is that what it’s called when he can only sleep of a night by taking a powerful sedative that  _guarantees_  no dreams?”  
  
“Making peace with his sacrifice is not the same as facing the reality of what was done to him.” Lord Elrond sighs once again, shaking his head. “It is the facing of this reality that lies before him like a quicksand bog, waiting to trap him and, if he gives in, sink him.” A gentle yet firm hand settles on Thorin’s shoulder for but a moment: a gesture of solidarity that puzzles and confuses Thorin, for how could Lord Elrond possibly understand Thorin’s situation from the inside?  
  
“Already, Master Baggins is doing far better than . . . another I have seen who had suffered such grief and torment at the hands of orcs,” Lord Elrond continues, clearly lost in thought, his face settled into a melancholy frown. “Before she was rescued, she was tortured in ways that even now, I cannot directly think upon. Driven mad by pain and despair, when she was finally rescued after many days—”  
  
“ _Days_?” It falls from Thorin’s lips, horrified and small, and Lord Elrond glances at him.  
  
“Yes, son of Thrain.  _Days_. And when she was rescued, there was little of the woman I . . . knew . . . under the person that had of necessity been born the night she was captured. Buried so deep was Celebrian, the Lady of Rivendell, that I feared that nothing would ever bring her back. Feared that  _I_  would never be able to bring her back. Or myself. . . .”  
  
“And . . . and were you able?” Thorin asks quietly, humbly. In his heart, he can only thank Durin and whatever gods protect the brave, that Bilbo’s suffering had not been for . . .  _days_. . . . “Were you able to bring your wife back?”  _To bring your_ self _back?_  
  
Lord Elrond’s lips purse for a few moments, as if he would not answer . . . but then he sighs again, drawn-out and heart-sore.  
  
“Somewhat,” he says softly, his eyes on the stones before his feet. “She was, of course, never the same as she had been, though I loved not the woman she became any less. Loved her, if possible, even  _more_  than ever I had. Admired the strength of her, like twice-forged steel. Admired the bravery it took to  _bring herself back_ —for it was more due to her own efforts that she began to heal, than due to my fumbling about and fretting, my cossetting and cloistering of her.  
  
“But in the end, some wounds will not heal—not fully. Such a wound was dealt to Celebrian, and left to fester while she was in the hands of the orcs. An evil wound made with . . . an evil blade . . . the poison of which would always be with her, always  _pain_  her while here in Middle Earth.” That pursing of his thin mouth, once more, and Lord Elrond glances at Thorin. “My Lady Celebrian sailed away on a ship to the Undying Lands many years ago.”  
  
Horrified once again, this time at the thought of  _Bilbo_ , his precious Burglar, leaving him, never to return, Thorin shakes his head. “But—was there nothing else to be done for her? No medicine to ease her pain—no potion to make her forget what she could not bear to remember. . . ?”  
  
Lord Elrond smiles grimly. “There exists no such potion among elves, for the forgetting of such torment. And even if there was, it would not erase the  _pain_  of it, which she felt afresh every day, though she did not speak of it for my sake, and for the sake of our children.  
  
“But she could find no more happiness in the mortal world. Could take no joy from anything, not even the children she loved so dearly . . . and though I bid her stay, in the end, she left. To go to the only place her spirit could at last finish healing. For though it did not feel that way at the time, her departure was for the best. Even  _I_  came to realize this, and in so realizing, was finally able to let her go . . . until the day our parting finally ends.” Lord Elrond takes a deep breath and that smile, grim and unhappy, becomes wistful and hopeful. Makes his somber face almost young.  
  
 _This is what he saw, that day,_  Thorin realizes, remembering that first morning, when the elven lord had stared into Thorin’s fireplace as one mesmerized, and had reached out to whatever it was he saw in the flames—something that made him joyous even as it caused him agony.  _It was his lost lady he saw in those flames, and his reunion with her. . . ._  
  
Thorin finds himself looking away from Lord Elrond’s face, tears springing to his eyes for this woman he will never meet, who’d suffered the way Bilbo had suffered, and for far longer . . . and hadn’t been able to heal completely. . . .  
  
And for the first time ever, his heart goes out to an elf. To  _two of them_ , for as much as the Lady Celebrian deserves such sentiment, so does her Lord Elrond. Thorin feels for them  _both_ , and can only thank Durin that Bilbo’s fate had not been Celebrian’s—that his healing is a more hopeful thing than hers had been.  
  
He wishes that her departure from Middle Earth had not been necessary to her well-being. For her sake and for Lord Elrond’s.  
  
 _No one deserves to lose someone they love so all-consumingly,_  he thinks, momentarily eaten by the unfairness of it all.  _No one deserves to have that love sundered—broken in twain for years, only to be reunited in what amounts to the afterlife. It’s as if the defilers of this world_ win _when such as that happens! It’s as if—_  
  
“Your Master Baggins, however, is another story, entirely,” Lord Elrond says suddenly, startling Thorin out of his thoughts. When he looks up at the elven lord, it’s to a reassuring smile that belies the misery that’d been writ upon that face so recently. “Take heart, son of Thrain. Your Master Baggins’ wounds, though deep, are not beyond healing, though what he endured will always pain him to remember.”  
  
“And remember, he must,” Thorin says, though it’s half question. Lord Elrond nods.  
  
“He  _must_ , if he’s to avoid a madness that no potion—indeed, no heart or mind can touch to heal.” He pauses once more, in thought. “He will bear up under such pain as these memories cause in him. It will be blunted with time and care . . . and love.”  
  
“I will spend the rest of my life—longer, even, by Durin—caring for him and loving him,” Thorin promises. “He is my love. My own. My . . . precious Burglar.”  
  
That intent, intense look comes over Lord Elrond’s face, once more—his step even falters momentarily as he searches Thorin’s eyes.  
  
But the moment passes, and Lord Elrond’s features turn once more opaque, his steps measured and certain. Thorin frowns, and does not comment on it, instead asking: “So there  _is_  hope that he will heal? You were not simply . . . trying to sew hope where there was none?”  
  
“I would never give false hope—though I do not care for that term, for hope is never false, only ever misplaced.” Lord Elrond stops walking, now, and Thorin stops with him. They meet each other’s gazes calmly, two kings with nothing to hide from nor fear of each other.  
  
Finally, Lord Elrond smiles and Thorin, uncertain of what had or is happening, returns it lamely.  
  
“Master Baggin not only tolerates your touch, he craves it. That, in itself, is a very good sign.” Lord Elrond’s hand settles on Thorin’s shoulder again, and this time it stays. His eyes are once more amused, but equally intent, as before. “And he is wise enough to use his desire for you as a hook, to pull him through these trying times. You might perhaps take joy in the fact that not only does Master Baggins desire you, but he  _wants_  to desire you. And that gives him hope and impetus. It makes him  _brave_.”  
  
“Makes him  _foolhardy_ , you mean,” Thorin grumbles, but still blushes. “And makes me at least twice so.”  
  
“It is never foolhardy to love truly, son of Thrain.”  
  
“Indeed?” Thorin shrugs the hand off his shoulder and paces a short distance away before pacing right back. “Every time I lay with him, I get closer to saying:  _hang it all_ , and  _having him_ , as he begs me to do with his every glance!”  
  
Lord Elrond’s eyebrows raise. “And this would be wrong?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , it would!” Thorin makes a frustrated sound and paces away and back again. “Until Master Baggins is healed—”  
  
“Such healing, King Thorin, is a process that may never end, this side of death. Healing from such trauma is usually a continuous process, one that must change as the person changes. It is a journey, healing. Not a destination.” Lord Elrond’s smile ceases to be amused and becomes empathetic. “Heed not this foolish desire to see Bilbo Baggins completely and perfectly whole, perfectly  _healed_  before you make love to him, or you  _never_  will. And  _that_  would do him more damage than the damage you would avoid by not.”  
  
“So you’re saying that I should give in to what he wants—what we  _both_  want—even though he’s not healed—or  _healing_? Even though he hasn’t even  _begun_  to do so?” Thorin demands almost angrily. Though whom he’s angry with, and why, are mere details that he does not care to know.  
  
“King Thorin, Master Baggins has been healing, slowly, but surely, for the past two months, though you are too close to see it. He’s been healing  _himself_  with the help of your love and care and yes, your touch.” Lord Elrond searches Thorin’s eyes again. “This is an integral part of his healing, and to deny him that, is to delay that healing. Or prevent it entirely.”  
  
Thorin turns away from that gaze and crosses his arms over his chest. Opens his mouth to speak, uncertain of what will come out.  
  
“How will I know when the time is right? How will I know when I’m not just giving in to my own selfish desires, but actually doing what’s  _right_  for him?”  
  
Lord Elrond does not answer at first. But after a minute, that heavy hand settles on Thorin’s shoulder again.  
  
“Listen to your heart, of course,” Lord Elrond says finally, with an assurance Thorin wishes he could possess. “It has been wise thus far, regarding Master Baggins. It will not lead you astray, this I promise.”  
  
“What if I can’t tell the difference between my bloody heart and my damned  _prick_?” Thorin mutters sullenly to himself, not meaning for Lord Elrond to hear him, let alone answer him. But the elven lord does both, barely-hidden laughter in his voice.  
  
“In that case, son of Thrain, I would recommend listening to  _Master Baggins’ heart_ , for a change, for it is far wiser than you know, and it is ever attuned to the workings of  _yours_.”  
  
And with that, the hand disappears, and Lord Elrond himself, when Thorin glances over his shoulder, has turned his serene face to the vista that lay before the battlements, with New Dale in the distance, bustling and prosperous, colorful banners and kites caught in the chill zephyrs.  
  
(Even now, that sight does Thorin’s own mind and heart a world of good.)  
  
“And now, King Thorin, I would ask that you tell me something of your childhood?” Lord Elrond turns that serene, inviting smile on Thorin for a few moments before turning it back to the rather lovely view. “For it is beyond me, as an elf, to imagine what it is like to spend a childhood beneath a mountain, as opposed to in the trees and valleys and green places of the world.  
  
“I would know your life’s story, from the beginning and in your own words. . . .”


	12. Dawn of a New Age 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time has come, two weeks after Lord Elrond's arrival, for Bilbo to get his memories back. Said getting will be considerably easier than the *having*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: It's J. R. R.'s sand. I just build castles with it.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Thorin wakes just ahead of the clock on the morning Lord Elrond is to attempt the task of resurrecting Bilbo's lost memories, only to find that Bilbo is already awake and dressed in one of Thorin's tunics, sitting up in their bed, arms wrapped around his bare knees as he stares into the dwindling fire.  
  
He is not shivering. He does not shiver so much as he used to—according to Lord Elrond, this is due to the improvement of Bilbo's nearly nonexistent appetite and his body being better able to warm itself—and is as still as a winter pond.  
  
“I'm so frightened,” he whispers when Thorin sits up and pulls him into his arms. Bilbo goes with a heavy, shuddering sigh and laughs; it's shaky and more than a bit distracted. “I don't think I've ever been more frightened of anything in my life than of this one set of memories.”  
  
Squeezing his love tight and kising his temple, Thorin murmurs: “I know, my love. And I am . . . frightened  _for_  you. But there's nothing for it but to remember. It is the lesser of two evils—and while I would spare you  _every_  evil, no matter how small, I cannot spare you  _this_.” Swallowing his own frustration and feelings of helplessness and guilt, Thorin closes his eyes for a few moments, till the stinging on the backs of them lessens in intensity.  
  
“I feel as if the person I am is about to die, and that when Lord Elrond is done . . . I shall wake up as someone so different, the person that I am now will be but a half-remembered shade. And the person I become will be someone you don't recognize and perhaps . . . perhaps cannot love,” Bilbo says, shuddering again.  
  
“You are and always  _will be_  Bilbo Baggins. No matter the changes time or these memories make, I will  _always_  recognize you, and I will always  _love_  you,” Thorin promises quietly, leaning back to look into Bilbo's eyes. They're dry, but reddened and swollen, as if he'd cried and done with it sometime before Thorin had woken, and now, has no tears left.  
  
Thorin reaches up and caresses Bilbo's pale cheek with the tip of his index finger, smiling tenderly when Bilbo leans into his touch, as usual. “I will always love you, Bilbo Baggins. For-ever.”  
  
A few left-over tears escape Bilbo's swollen eyes and he smiles a little, too: like the sun coming out during a gentle rainshower. “And I will always love you, Thorin Oakenshield. No matter who I become . . . I will always love you. Of that I am certain.”  
  
And with that he leans up to steal a kiss that becomes several—which becomes a clinch that does not end when Thorin bears him down to their bed, pushing up the woolen tunic and baring soft, warm skin to the worshipful glide of his fingers and lips.  
  
Shortly thereafter, the clock in the main chamber chimes, and is unheard by either of them. They hear nothing over their own groans and soft moans—over the hitches of breath and gasps they make, and the desperate, stuttered  _I love you_ s that escape their lips on almost every exhalation.  
  


*

  
  
Lord Elrond arrives at their chambers precisely at eleven, as he'd said he would the previous evening.  
  
The clock chimes eleven, in fact, just as either Arlen or Muir knock on the door to their chambers, and Thorin and Bilbo—both picking at their breakfasts in silence, as they have been for hours—start and look at each other with wide, unhappy eyes.  
  
Then Bilbo smiles, trembling and hopeful, and Thorin is helpless to do other than return it.  
  
“Remember: I love you, and I will  _always_  love you,” he says fervently, reaching across the small dining table and taking Bilbo's hand. Bilbo's smile is still trembling, but also genuine.  
  
“And I you, my king,” he replies in a choked voice, squeezing Thorin's hand back.  
  
Then, as one, they're standing and making their way to the doors, still hand in hand, to welcome Lord Elrond.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin, sitting on their bed at Bilbo's side, watches warily as Lord Elrond unpacks a small satchel that is seemingly filled with different glass phials and bottles—some colored, some clear, some with contents as misty and opaque as a winter sky—and places the contents on Bilbo's night table. But not before holding each one for several moments and brooding briefly over it.  
  
When he's done, he sits in the tall chair Thorin has kept in the main room—in case the elven lord paid them another visit in their chambers . . . he has not—and meets first Thorin's eyes then Bilbo's. His own are reassuring and kind . . . though not without their own solemnity.  
  
He opens his mouth as if to speak, but after several seconds, simply closes it again with an audible click, smiling, once more. But grimly.  
  
“There is . . . nothing I can say that will adequately prepare you for remembering with your waking mind what your sleeping mind has found so horrific,” he finally sighs, one hand going up to his forehead, where one long index finger rubs his right eyebrow: the first nervous gesture Thorin has ever seen an elf make. “I can only remind you that not only is King Thorin here to help you through this time but  _I, too_ , am here at your disposal. And I will  _be here_  for as long as you need me.”  
  
Bilbo blinks once, and a tear rolls down the side of his face. He wipes it away and smiles up at Lord Elrond.  
  
“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” he whispers, reaching out to take the elven lord's hand, his own shaking as it grasps and is grasped by a longer, larger one. Grasped and is held until, shivering and shuddering, Bilbo finally withdraws his hand and Lord Elrond lets it goes with a gentle inclination of his head.  
  
“Will . . . will remembering make it so that I can touch others again?” Bilbo asks suddenly, sitting up a little, hope in his eyes once more. “I mean . . . will I be able to shake hands with and embrace at least my friends, without feeling as if I'll be sick?”  
  
Lord Elrond opens his mouth again for several seconds, but this time, instead of closing it with a click, he reluctantly, carefully speaks.  
  
“That is . . . not for me to say, Master Baggins. I cannot predict the outcome of the resurrecting of these memories because the possibilities are . . . many and varied.” Lord Elrond shakes his head wryly, apologetically. “But I believe that it is likely that—in time—the recall of these memories will make it easier for you to begin to learn anew how to bear the touch of others . . . and even enjoy it, as you once did.”  
  
“Oh!” Bilbo breathes, a wary happiness overtaking him, and more tears leaking out of his eyes as he sits up completely, his shining gaze turning to Thorin, who takes Bilbo's hand and pulls it to his lips. “You don't know—I can't even explain how terrible it is not to be able to touch others—to not only detest their touch, but to  _fear_  it. To anticipate and avoid it as if—” cutting himself off, Bilbo merely shakes his head once, as if to dismiss such thoughts. “I suppose I should just be happy to even be able to leave these chambers to even  _see_  my friends again—Ori and Balin and the others, let alone be able to sling an arm around them like old times. . . .”  
  
“You shall be able, I believe, to do anything you set your mind and heart to, Master Baggins.  _In time_. That is one thing you  _must_  remember. These changes you would see happen will, in all likelihood, not be instantaneous,” he warns, before Thorin can. “And they will not be automatic. They are changes  _you_  must create within yourself, with your own will. And, as I said, over time.”  
  
Bilbo, in the middle of cupping Thorin's cheek in his cool, still-trembling hand, meets Lord Elrond's gaze and smiles laconically.  
  
“Oh, believe me, I know not to expect things to happen instantly, simply because I want them to.” His eyes drift to Thorin's, momentarily intent and heated. “I have learned to  _wait_  for what I want. Just knowing that I might get it— _in time_. . . .” Bilbo's smile turns almost sultry and Thorin blushes, his hand coming up to hold Bilbo's own hand to his cheek. “Just knowing that that which I desire might someday be mine gives me strength and hope and patience. It makes me _brave_.”  
  
That voracious sultriness fades into Bilbo's customary sweetness of smile and mildness of gaze, though with an edge of apprehension. “Brave enough, even, for what must now happen.” With a sigh, he lets go of Thorin and leans back on his elbows, eyeing his night table with some trepidation. “Must I drink all of them?”  
  
“Only one of them for now, actually,” Lord Elrond says, smiling and lifting up a phial with an amber liquid in it. That liquid, unlike the Dreamless Sleep, is no syrup. It seems to have the same consistency as water. “This concoction is . . .  _like_  a sedative, though not as powerful as The Dreamless Sleep. It will only render you partially asleep . . . a  _waking sleep_. And it  _promotes_ dreams, rather than prevents them. It is the only potion one you must take now." He pauses as if searching for the right words then goes on somberly. "It will allow your waking mind to dream as if it was asleep.”  
  
“Then what are the others for?” Thorin asks, not suspicious, but vaguely worried. It seems as if there are a thousand multi-colored phials—far too many for even such a . . . delicate situation as this.  
  
“The others are merely . . . precautions, King Thorin.” Lord Elrond gracefully inclines his head to Thorin, now. “I've also brought other sedatives, as well as stimulants; a potion to relax the muscles; a potion to numb the emotions; a potion to clear the mind, and even one to fog it . . . rest assured, son of Thrain, I have come prepared for as many eventualities as I could predict.”  
  
“So I see,” Thorin murmurs, watching as Lord Elrond removes the stopper from the amber liquid and hands it to Bilbo, who takes the phial, holds it up to the light as if to admire it, then toasts Thorin and Lord Elrond with a small, wry smile.  
  
“Bottom's up, is it?” he asks, swishing the liquid around a little.  
  
“Of this potion, you must drink the whole phial, yes. It may take somewhat longer to have an effect than The Dreamless Sleep.” Lord Elrond pauses again, once more taking the time to find the words he wants. “You will experience a calm euphoria as it begins to take effect, as well as moderate to . . . powerful hallucinations once it  _has_  taken  _full effect_.”  
  
“What kind of hallucinations?” Thorin asks as Bilbo, seemingly unconcerned, takes a breath and tips the phial up to his lips. When the amber liquid is gone, he hands the phial back to Lord Elrond, who nods with approval and places the empty container back in his satchel.  
  
“That, we shall see, son of Thrain,” he says mildly. And though  _he_  doesn't sound particularly worried,  _Thorin_  can only watch with some concern as Bilbo settles back in their bed and sighs.  
  
“Tell me a story, Thorin,” he says softly, holding his hand out. Thorin takes it without hesitation, squeezing it gently before linking their fingers. “A story with a happy ending.”  
  
“I—”  _don't know any stories with_ happy _endings, my love,_  Thorin means to say regretfully, because even the one story he knows with a mostly happy ending . . . had not ended so happily for the person Thorin would tell that story to.  
  
Nor do many of the stories dwarves tend to tell have  _happy_  endings—most of those stories being histories of the dwarven people . . . who have not been the luckiest people of all—except for the sorts of jesting stories dwarves like Master Bofur have somehow found the knack of remembering and telling.  
  
Thorin has  _never_  had that knack—the knack of amusing, entertaining . . . reassuring. . . .  
  
But before he can disappoint his love, Thorin has an idea—one that makes him smile, even as he remembers the peril the fellowship had once faced. That they'd all nearly perished, but for Bilbo's quick thinking, Gandalf's stealthy return, and the unrelieved blessing of a speedy dawn.  
  
“Once upon a time,” he begins quietly, and Bilbo's eyes widen slightly, as ever they do when Thorin imparts some bit of history or legend to him. His small, cool hand warms slowly in Thorin's.“Once upon a time, my love, there lived in the mountains, three trolls of hideous visage and even more hideous appetite. One day, when food had become noticeably scarce, these three tolls took it upon themselves to descend from their high places in the mountains, and into the farmlands and fields of men. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
Thorin is, indeed, no storyteller, but Bilbo listens as raptly as any child, even when he's told a story—with much back-tracking and adding of suddenly remembered details by Thorin, and much to the amusement of both Bilbo and Lord Elrond—he'd lived through.  
  
By the time the story ends, rather abruptly, with the finding of the troll hoard, and Goblin-Cleaver, Foe-Hammer, and Sting—considering the memories that are about to be awakened, Thorin chooses not to continue the story to the point of the appearance of the wargs and their riders, nor the flight to the Hidden Valley—Bilbo is blinking and his pupils are dilated as he looks between Thorin and Lord Elrond as if he's never seen either of them before. A small, bemused smile plays about his lips.  
  
“That was a fine story, and well-told, King Thorin,” Lord Elrond says into the expectant silence that had fallen several minutes ago, and had been broken by nothing other than the crackle of the fire. “Well-told, indeed.”  
  
“If you would hear it told  _well_ , my lord Elrond, you'd have to hear a  _real_  sotryteller tell it, such as my Chief Inventor, Master Bofur.” Thorin snorts sardonically. “ _I_  tend to leave details out of the stories I tell, only to remember them after. Or not at all. Master Baggins always complains that when I tell him tales of my ancestors or the very histories I was bid memorize as a young dwarf, certain events are . . . missing.”  
  
“Because you always leave out the  _good_  parts, my love,” Bilbo agrees, his words slightly slurred and his dazed, hazy eyes nonetheless fond. “You never tell who fell in love or how, or whether they won over the object of their affections.”  
  
Thorin snorts again, but smiles. “Dwarf-histories do not focus on such fripperies, but on great deeds done and objectives won or lost,” he says, and not for the first time. And not for the first time, Bilbo rolls his eyes at what he deems Thorin's  _single-mindedness_. Then he groans as if disoriented or dizzied, and his eyes close immediately thereafter and do not reopen.  
  
“No one wants to hear a story where the handsome prince slays a great beast, then does not win the heart of the fair maiden,” he yawns, his lashes fluttering as if his eyes would open, but are too heavy to do so. “No one wants the handsome prince to be all by himself in his castle. No one wants the prince to be alone.”  
  
“No, my love,” Thorin agrees softly, solemnly, bringing Bilbo's lax hand up to his mouth for a lingering kiss. “No, I suppose they do not.”  
  
For several more minutes, they sit in silence but for the fire, Bilbo breathing deeply, slowly, his eyes moving behind his closed, pale lids, and Thorin and Lord Elrond watching him—no doubt thinking vastly different thoughts.  
  
Suddenly, Bilbo's eyes fly open and he half sits up, his frantic, but unfocused gaze instantly locking onto Thorin's.  
  
“We must wait for Gandalf!” he exclaims, and Thorin frowns, glancing at Lord Elrond, who's sitting forward in his tall chair, his gaze sharp and intent on Bilbo.  
  
“Wait for Gandalf? My love, Gandalf is far gone—we know not where—” Thorin begins with some hesitation, but Bilbo is now clutching Thorin's hand with both of his own. His grip is panicked and damp.  
  
“Listen, I—I know you don't care for me—don't  _respect_  me, Thorin, but please hear what I have to say,” Bilbo murmurs in a rush, glancing around him as if to make certain no one else can overhear what he would say. Then his eyes—skating unseeingly over Lord Elrond—roll back to Thorin, who is not only puzzling over Bilbo's words, but smarting over them, as well. For had not they once been true? Once, at the beginning of their journey?  
  
“If we don't wait for Gandalf—if we go into these mountains without him, I fear . . . I fear something terrible will befall us.” Dazed, desperate eyes search Thorin's own, helpless with mute fear, and Thorin swallows his guilt at hearing these words—the same words Bilbo had once whispered to him as they'd set up camp in the foothills of the mountains . . . words Thorin had once also dismissed, to his everlasting regret—and holds that gaze, even as he finds that he can only barely bear up under the weight of such innocent pleading for what can never now be heeded.  
  
No, all Thorin can do is offer what comfort he can, over a year later—a year after horror worse than any that younger, infinitely more naive Bilbo could ever have dreamed of, had been done upon him.  
  
“My love,” he starts, meaning to say whatever will settle and soothe Bilbo—meaning to pull the hobbit into his arms and hold him through this memory-disguised-as-hallucination. But Lord Elrond's hand on his arm stays him.  
  
“You must act as you did when first he came to you with this fear, and say now what you said, then,” he tells Thorin sternly, quickly. “His mind is working its way toward the events he would remember. To facilitate that, you  _must_  say what you said then—or as close to it as you can recall.”  
  
“But—” Thorin does not dare glance at Bilbo's wide, waiting, pleading eyes, for he knows that if he does, he  _will_  say anything, absolutely  _anything_  to comfort his love. “But I was worse than dismissive of his fears, Lord Elrond . . . I was . . .  _cruel_. Needlessly so.” Hanging his head in shame and regret, Thorin shrugs away the elven lord's hand when it drifts up to his shoulder to settle and squeeze in silent support.  
  
“Then you must be cruel again, son of Thrain, for it will not be needlessly so, this time.” Lord Elrond's gaze is as tangible as sunlight on Thorin's face, though Thorin dares not meet  _it_ , either. “You must be cruel now to ultimately be kind.  
  
“What reply did you give Master Baggins when he came to you with his fears?”  
  
Swallowing again—this time, his heart—Thorin finds himself looking up into Bilbo's eyes. Into hope that's as fragile as ever it is, but for a different reason than usual.  _This_  hope is at least one year dead, though Bilbo no longer realizes it.  
  
“I said . . .  _Mister Baggins, if you wish to wait here for the wizard, then I bid you do so. But the rest of the company is going into those mountains 'ere the rising of the sun. Gandalf, I expect, will meet us either in them, or on the other side. But if you wish to see him on _this_  side of the mountains, you'll wait here alone._”  
  
And Thorin's smirk is shaky, but no less a smirk than it'd been over a year ago. And just as he had a year ago, he sees the hope gutter in Bilbo's eyes then go out completely. It wounds Thorin to his heart to cause such pain  _again_ , but somehow, he goes on . . . because he  _must_ :  
  
“ _Alone, of course, except, for the company of your stout heart and bravery. Such as they are._ ”  
  
At this, Bilbo's face falls, and he looks down, but not before Thorin sees tears fill his eyes. But those tears do not fall. No, in those days, Thorin imagines, Bilbo would rather have died than trust  _Thorin Oakenshield_  with his tears. . . .  
  
“I speak not out of cowardice, but out of concern.” Though quiet, Bilbo's voice is firm and certain. “There's a wizard with the fellowship for a  _reason_. Because we  _need_  a wizard on this journey. We should not undertake such a dangerous step without him, Thorin.” Bilbo mumbles this last without even that fragile hope, his voice barely audible.  
  
And it's cruel irony that Thorin remembers perfectly his parting shot of that evening—the last thing he'd said to Bilbo before the stone giants, and nearly losing Bilbo to a fall off a ledge.  
  
“ _Do not tell me how to lead my company,_ Mister _Baggins_ ,” Thorin says now, as he'd said then, though his voice shakes. “ _Concern yourself only with being less of a—a burden, and leave strategy to your betters._ ”  
  
And with that, Thorin means to make his escape now, as he had then, only for much different reasons—shame and grief now being chiefest among them—but as he stands up, Lord Elrond takes hold of his arm in a vise-like grip that Thorin cannot free himself of for all his trying.  
  
“You must not abandon him at this moment, son of Thrain,” Lord Elrond says grimly, quietly. “He needs you more than ever.”  
  
“Let  _go_  of me!” Thorin growls in Khuzdul, and would say more—and much worse than that—but Bilbo swoons with a soft groan. Upon touching the bed, his body begins to shiver and shudder. He rolls onto his side and groans again and, Lord Elrond forgotten for the moment, Thorin immediately pulls the sheets and blankets up over him, his actions and speech of a year ago bedamned. Bilbo is suffering  _now_ , and Thorin would ease that suffering in whatever fashion he may.  
  
“It's alright, my love. I'm here. I'm here,” he murmurs comfortingly, combing Bilbo's now-damp hair back from his forehead and face. Thorin's momentary urge to flee—his temporary _cowardice_ —is quite forgotten in the face of Bilbo's distress. Those lovely, tear-shiny eyes are open, but focused on nothing Thorin can see.  
  
“The mountains are  _alive_ , Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, his breathing suddenly accelerated. “They battle and brawl like angry drunkards in an alley.” A hysterical little laugh. “We're all going to die here. We'll fall to our deaths or be crushed!”  
  
“Not so, my love, not so. . . .” Thorin leans down to kiss Bilbo's temple and cheek, lingering for the calming scent of Bilbo's hair, like new grass. “We  _survived_. We  _won through_  it all . . . the giants, the goblins . . . even the wargs and their riders. . . .”  
  
“Goblins!” Bilbo shudders again, his eyes still focused on that point somewhere between Lord Elrond's tall chair and the night table. “The goblins can't see me. The cave is a trap that caught thirteen, but there were  _fourteen_  . . .  _they can't see me_  . . . I should run—not stop till I get home. Should never have left in the first place—should never have—”  
  
But Bilbo doesn't say what else he should never have done. Merely stares and does not blink as if he would not take his eyes off whatever he's seeing—not even for the merest moment.  
  
Thorin glances at Lord Elrond, who's still focused on Bilbo, leaning farther forward, frowning.  
  
“T-The rocks and stones . . . a-are like old b-bones . . . all b-bare of m-meat. . . .” Bilbo whisper-sings suddenly, in a strange, scratchy tenor that Thorin has never heard from him. The hobbit is holding his cupped hands—still shaking and trembling—before his face as if gazing upon something small and private. Something for the eyes of no other. Something . . . precious. . . .  
  
But there is, clearly, nothing in his hand. Even as Bilbo's index finger prods his empty palm, and strokes at the nothing thereon.  
  
“But s-stream and p-pool is wet and c-cool . . . so n-nice for feeeeet. . . .” he chants on in that strange voice, still stroking his empty palm with one tender, gentle finger. His profile is set in a smile that is more of a grimace than any expression of joy. This is plain to Thorin, who has surely seen all of Bilbo's many different smiles, and yet has never seen  _this_  one.  
  
And he hopes never to see it again.  
  
“My love, what—” Thorin begins evenly, reaching out to take Bilbo's empty hands in his own, but Bilbo quickly whips his hands away, hissing and glaring at Thorin—who is too shocked to be hurt by this strange display—and Lord Elrond stays Thorin's extended arm, shaking his head.  
  
“This must play out,” he says as sternly as before, but with an edge of intensity Thorin cannot countenance. “Let his memories play out as they will, without interruption. He'll not thank you later for a delay now.”  
  
Sighing, Thorin frees his arm yet again and looks to his love. Bilbo has flung off the covers and curled in on himself, his left hand clutched to his heart even as he gasps and wards off nothing Thorin can see with his right. His frantic, panicked eyes are once more focused beyond anything Thorin can see. Focused on the events of a year past.  
  
“Can't see me . . . you can't see. . . .” he breathes wonderingly, some of that panic receding . . . then his voice changes once more, this time to something gloating and cruel and  _cold_. A voice of which Thorin would have said  _Bilbo_ , the warmest, kindest, most generous person he's ever known, was not capable. “You would murder me to steal back that which  _abandoned_  you—which no longer belongs to you, and it's  _I_  who's the thief?” Bilbo laughs, as cold as his words. “I should cut your throat. It'd be a mercy to end such as you. You're nothing, now. Nothing without it. . . .”  
  
And Bilbo sits up, faster than Thorin can follow, startling him into sitting back. But Bilbo grasps Thorin's tunic—bunches it in both fists and hauls Thorin closer with unaccountable strength, till the dwarf-king is kneeling on their bed. Bilbo's eyes are wide and wild, the pupils pinpricks. His face seems somehow older, harsher . . . greedy, and . . .  _murderous_ , Thorin's heart whispers.  
  
“It came to  _me_ , you understand?” Bilbo demands, his gaze intent with a madness that Thorin can only hope is temporary. “It  _left him_  and came to  _me_. And I  _will not_  let anyone take it away. It's  _mine_!”  
  
Now, Thorin is utterly lost—who is  _him_  and what  _left him_  to go to  _Bilbo_?—and wondering if his love has been at last driven irrevocably mad by whatever was in that tonic and whatever darkness lingers in his mind.  
  
But Lord Elrond seems not to be hindered by such fears.  
  
“ _What_  is yours, Master Baggins? What did you find in the goblins' caves?” he asks sharply, leaning farther forward than ever, his normally staid face both avid and fearful. And for the first time since these . . . memories began playing out on the stage of Bilbo's mind, Bilbo looks at Lord Elrond, his face momentarily confused and lost. Then he's turning away . . . letting go of Thorin's tunic, laying down again and curling onto his other side, and mumbling distractedly to himself:  
  
“Mustn't ask me . . . not his business.  _Not_.” Bilbo covers his face with his hands, his breath whistling fast and harsh through his nose. “Nothing. Nothing is mine and nothing is what I found nothing in those caves . . . nothing but my c-courage.” Peering out from between his fingers, Bilbo's eyes are naught but a wet sparkle . . . and yet there's something watchful and measuring about that sparkle. Something Thorin does not like. It makes him feel as if he's being lied to, and one thing Bilbo Baggins is  _not_  is a liar. Especially not to  _Thorin_. . . .  
  
“ _It_  wants me to kill him . . . and he deserves it, I feel in my heart that he does. 'Twould be his just dessert, and yet . . . his life is not mine to take . . . I . . .  _pity_  him, and cannot bring myself to cast judgment upon him.” Bilbo's hands slowly move away from his face and he closes his eyes with a soft sigh. “Gandalf was right.  _Of course_  he was. He always is.”  
  
Bilbo curls into a tight ball for long, taut minutes then—with a sudden laugh that is wry and somehow sad—he's murmuring something else, words slurring once more, but still partially understandable.  _Familiar_  words such as:  _garden . . . books . . . home. . . ._  
  
Thorin remembers quite vividly, and with a subtle fissuring of his heart, Bilbo's promise to help him—help them  _all_ —regain their home. Regain Erebor. Remembers how he'd felt in those moments, immediately following Bilbo's words. Staring at the hobbit, Thorin's heart had, for the very first time, begun to skip beats. To beat faster, as if excited about . . .  _something_.  
  
In those moments, Thorin had finally  _understood_  his own heart, for only the second time in his life—understood where it was leading him and why. And for the first time in his life, that place was not Erebor.  
  
And, oh, he'd known, in those halcyon moments before the first warg howl went up, that his heart was guided now by a light that shined from Bilbo Baggins like an evening star. A light that Thorin had never before seen in anyone else, and would likely never see again.  
  
 _He is my heart's North Star,_  Thorin had realized with a wonder that verged upon dismay, for along with this realization had come a desire so fierce and singular, it left Thorin quite breathless. In that final moment of safety, he'd known—deep down, if he knew it nowhere else—that here was something, at last, more precious than the Arkenstone itself. More precious than the wealth of Erebor.  _He is the most lovely thing I have ever beheld . . . the purest heart I've ever known . . . and I . . . have much for which to atone, so greatly and for so long have I wronged him. . . ._  
  
Then the wargs had come and such thoughts had, in the space of seconds, disappeared back into the murky depths of his heart . . . only to resurface not many days hence. To nearly sweep him under as his hobbit marched off to burgle the Arkenstone from under the nose of a dragon.  
  
 _I love you, Bilbo Baggins,_  he'd thought when Bilbo had disappeared from sight, into Erebor's darkness. Then Thorin had hanged his head in despair, knowing he'd likely sent his love, his evening star off to his doom. That he'd never have a chance to so much as  _hold Bilbo Baggins' hand_  and simply take a walk with him in safety and for nothing but pleasure. Never have a chance to touch the hobbit in anything other than utility, and such bare comfort as is Thorin's to offer.  
  
Not that there would—after what Azog had done to the hobbit—be much  _touching_  in the offing. Even if there'd been some small chance that Thorin's own behavior and words hadn't completely cost him any chance he might have had at winning Bilbo . . . the violation Bilbo had suffered had no doubt killed any interest in  _that_  sort of touch from anyone. Thorin included.  
  
Or so Thorin had once thought. He'd once thought that he had little or nothing left to lose, when it came to his relationship with Bilbo Baggins. But that had never been the case, even when he'd dared not admit his feelings to himself or to Bilbo—dared not touch the hobbit.  
  
And now that he  _has_  dared . . . now that he  _can_  touch. . . .  
  
Now that he can  _touch_ , Thorin reaches out to place his hand on Bilbo's back—to once more offer comfort and to soothe his love's fevered rememberings—but when his hand encounters the thick wool of his old tunic, Bilbo stiffens.  
  
“ _NO!_ ” he yells, rolling onto his hands and knees, and starting to scrabble toward the headboard of the bed, scattering pillows. “ _This isn't happening!_ ”  
  
For a moment, Thorin is confused, and reaches out to apprehend his lover, who's clawing at the wood of the headboard as if he's trying to find purchase in it. But his nails are bitten-down and jagged, and can gain no such purchase in the hard, dark wood.  
  
Thorin's hands land on Bilbo's back and shoulder. “Bilbo, love, it is only me—Thorin—”   
  
“No, King Thorin, you  _must not touch_ —” Lord Elrond begins, actually standing up to sweep Thorin's arms away from Bilbo, who's stopped clawing at the headboard with a gasp.  
  
“ _No!_ ” he shouts again, this time hopeless and despairing, then his body once more stiffens, like a hobbit-shaped plank. And he sinks to the bed and starts to flail. And thrash. And  _scream_.  
  
Heart-rending sounds of pain and fear and despair, these screams hurt Thorin's spirit and his ears. Forever, they go on. Forever Bilbo screams, till his screams have turned hoarse and broken.  
  
Till his flailing and thrashing have slowed to sporadic twitches and shudders.  
  
Till Lord Elrond has finally released Thorin's arms from a once more vise-like grip.  
  
Till at last, Bilbo swoons again, collapsing face-down in an askew pillow, his small, limp body utterly still as Thorin collects it into his shaking arms, and hugs it tight and close.  
  
“It is done,” Lord Elrond says softly, his voice once more composed and grim. Thorin does not look at him—is not looking at anything but the stinging backs of his closed eyes as he rocks his poor Burglar in his arms. “When he awakens, he will still be . . . dazed and confused for some hours. The regaining and reordering of his memories may take even longer . . . but he will remember what has been so long forgotten. It will now be our job to help him discover who he must become, and to help that person be as whole as possible.”  
  
Still rocking Bilbo's light, motionless body—but for the slowing, but still bird-fast beat of his heart against Thorin's chest, and the soft breath against Thorin's neck the hobbit shows no signs of life, and certainly no signs of waking up—Thorin nods once.  
  
“And you are . . . committed to Master Baggins, and to this course of action?”  
  
Kissing Bilbo's hair, Thorin tamps down a flare of rage so bright and hot it nearly scorches his very thoughts. “You know I am.”  
  
“Good. For now begins the hardest part of Master Baggins' journey and yours, son of Thrain: the facing of these memories and the making of new meaning in a world which, for Master Baggins _and for yourself_ , will have changed forever . . . and not for the better. At least not at first.”  
  
Thorin nods once more, Lord Elrond's words washing over him and through him. Tears run down his face as he hugs Bilbo tighter to him with a relieved groan, murmuring his love and devotion, and covering Bilbo's pale, peaked face with kisses.  
  
The hobbit has begun to stir in his arms.


	13. Dawn of a New Age 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I took my love down to Violet Hill/ There we sat in the snow/ All that time she was silent, still/ Said: If you love me, won't you let me know/ If you love me, won't you let me know. . . ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Cookies!  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“Thorin. . . ?”  
  
Thorin wakes from a thin, unrestful doze at the soft, hoarse sound of his name on Bilbo's lips and blinks the sleep from his gritty, tired eyes.  
  
“My love,” he says, barely above a whisper, his own voice hoarse from hours—he does not even know how many—of murmuring comforting nonsense and reassurances to the delirious hobbit in his care. He has lost track entirely of time, but for the occasional chiming of the clock . . . which he can never pay attention to for long enough to count the chimes. He's always too focused on Bilbo.  
  
Too focused on his fevered, hallucinating lover to mark the comings and goings of Lord Elrond who—Thorin  _was_  aware enough to note—had been present more than he was absent. Too lost in his own guilt and regret and remorse—his own  _worry_  for the person who has become _everything_  to him—to do more than ask the purpose of the concoctions Lord Elrond had occasionally managed to make Bilbo drink. Lord Elrond's replies had been brief, but simple:  
  
“This will reduce his fever.”  
  
“This will allow his body to rest, so that his mind may rest.”  
  
“And this, once more, is The Dreamless Sleep, for I hesitate to give Master Baggins any more of the potion to rest his body. It carries its own dangers if used too liberally.”  
  
This was said worriedly, and Lord Elrond had watched Bilbo moan and toss sluggishly, as if his limbs were too heavy to move. But the hobbit was still trying. And partially succeeding, despite Lord Elrond's potion to still his restless body.  
  
Placing the fingers of one elegant hand gently on Bilbo's forehead, the elven lord had closed his eyes for several minutes, frowning to himself as if concentrating rather intently. Then he'd finally nodded once, seemingly unhappy, but also resolute, his fingers only reluctantly leaving Bilbo's forehead.  
  
“The Dreamless Sleep, it is, Master Baggins,” he'd murmured, then sighed and retrieved the bottle from Bilbo's night table. He'd unstoppered it, and adroitly tipped open Bilbo's mouth and dripped a single ruby drop of Dreamless Sleep on Bilbo's restless tongue before Thorin could even remark upon it—not that he would have. And within minutes, Bilbo had been sleeping as one dead: his body stilled, his muttering ceased, and his eyes no longer rolling wildly under tightly-clenched lids. His heart-rate had finally, for the first time in many hours, slowed to a pace that had allowed Thorin's  _own_  to finally calm somewhat.  
  
Shortly thereafter, Lord Elrond had asked leave to go rest for a few hours, saying that Bilbo should be asleep until perhaps seven or eight o'clock. Thorin had waved the elf lord away distractedly, having dragged a chair to Bilbo's bedside during one of Lord Elrond's brief absences, and taken the hobbit's lax, over-warm hand. In this pseudo-natural repose, Bilbo's face had been serenely lovely. . . .  
  
“But if he awakens before I return, son of Thrain, send for me,” Lord Elrond had all but commanded, and quite sternly. “As soon as possible.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Thorin had agreed quickly, impatient with anything or anyone that took him away from his silent contemplation of Bilbo Baggins' loveliness. “I'll send Arlen or Muir to fetch you if he awakens before your return.”  
  
“That is well, then.”  
  
Some minutes after that, the door to Thorin's bedchamber had opened and closed, but Thorin had not even noticed that he'd noticed. He had eyes and ears only for Bilbo. . . .  
  
Bilbo, who, after hours that had felt like days, is now finally fully awake. Or at least awake enough that his eyes are open and  _aware_  and focusing on Thorin's.  
  
Blinking away a blur of tears that he hadn't even felt until his vision had suddenly been trebled, Thorin leans close, pulling Bilbo's hand to his lips.  
  
“My love,” he murmurs on Bilbo's fingers, blinking away even more blurriness—for he'll have nothing between himself and the sight of his pale, peaked,  _perfect_  hobbit. “Oh, my love. . . .”  
  
Bilbo winces and grimaces, his eyes closing once more as he turns his face away. When he opens them, he will not look at Thorin. “Don't call me that, Thorin. It's cruel to say things like that when you can't possibly mean them.” He pulls his hand away from Thorin's, who only lets go out of sheer surprise.  
  
“Bilbo,” he says finally, when Bilbo has avoided his gaze for nearly a minute. “When I call you  _my love_ , I do so only because that is what I feel from the very bottom of my heart, to the tips of my fingers and toes. I could not possibly mean it  _more_.” Frowning, himself, Thorin takes Bilbo's hand again—or tries to. Bilbo keeps pulling it away, until Thorin sighs and gives it up as a bad job. For now. “Why would I lie about about loving you?”  
  
“I don't know,” Bilbo says simply, meeting Thorin's eyes again, his own hard and unreadable. “I don't understand anything, anymore. Maybe I never did. Perhaps you're mistaken. Perhaps you feel sorry for me. Perhaps you once loved me, but after . . . everything . . . that love faded. I don't know. But what I  _do_  know is that you do not love me now. You couldn't possibly.”  
  
“And why is that, Master Baggins?” Thorin asks quietly, holding Bilbo's gaze, though it hurts to do so. To see not only knowledge of what had happened to his hobbit in those autumn-blue eyes, but to see  _memory_  of it there, too, like a blight at the heart of an otherwise perfect rose. “Why couldn't I  _possibly_  love you now?”  
  
Bilbo snorts ruefully, his mouth pursing. “Because you  _know_. Because you  _saw_. What Azog did to me. You saw it all—heard me scream like a lamb to the slaughter—”  
  
“Bilbo—”  
  
“He told me to do that, you know? To scream. Not that I wouldn't have, anyway,” Bilbo says lowly, his eyes skittering off to the fire, shining with tears that do not fall. “' _Scream for your dwarf-lover to hear_ ,' is what he said, and I did it. I screamed and I  _screamed_. At first because it hurt so much . . . and then because I thought it might go on forever. The pain. The humiliation of being held down and raped in front of all the people I hold dear. . . .  
  
“But then . . . I  _stopped screaming_. Because I knew it  _would_  end. That Azog would kill me when he got bored of hurting me, and at last, the pain would be  _over_.  _Everything_  would be over, and I'd never be hurt or have to scream again.”  
  
Shining, yet dull eyes meet Thorin's again, and Bilbo smiles sadly. Reaches out as if to touch Thorin's face—to wipe away the tears that are blazing molten trails down Thorin's cool cheeks—but he stops himself at the last second and withdraws his hand.  
  
“I'll never be clean of that, you know? No matter how many baths I take, no matter how much time has passed . . . I'll always have his stink on me. I'll always bear his mark like an invisible brand.”  
  
“That's not true,” Thorin insists, reaching for Bilbo's hand. This time he manages to catch it, and Bilbo snorts again, as if he doesn't even care enough to pull it away. “Azog could never touch, never defile, never  _erase_  the purity I see in you. Could never make you anything less than the strongest, bravest person I have ever had the honor of knowing.”  
  
“Pretty words.” Bilbo laughs, looking down at their hands, his own held tight in Thorin's. “You're very good at saying everything I've ever wanted to hear, and then some. But I don't believe you. Even before I remembered, I couldn't quite believe that you really loved me. But now, I  _know_ that you can't. After everything you've seen and everything I am . . . I don't see how anyone _could_.”  
  
And this is said without either rue or biterness, just a simple, matter-of-fact hopelessness that hurts Thorin's heart. Makes hims pull Bilbo's hand to his chest as if that mere touch—as if the very beat of his own heart—could heal Bilbo.  
  
“ _I_  could. I  _do_ ,” he promises, wiping at his tears with his free hand, then enclosing it around what little of Bilbo's hand can be seen beneath his other one. “I  _love_  you—”  
  
“Stop  _saying_  that!” Bilbo exclaims, yanking on his hand again. But this time, Thorin refuses to let it go. “You can't act like you're perfectly alright with what your direst enemy—the bane of your existence and one of the foulest creatures ever to walk this Earth—did to the person you would have as your lover! You cannot pretend that I'm still innocent and untouched, as once I was!”  
  
“But you  _are_  innocent, Bilbo Baggins. Can you not see? Did you not say yourself that what Azog did to you has nothing to do with what we, you and I, do and are? And that our love makes all the difference?” Thorin demands, staring at Bilbo intently till the hobbit meets his gaze once more, slowly, warily, almost resentfully. “You have never been touched in love—at least you hadn't been, before me. And I still have yet to make love to you . . . so, yes, you  _are_  innocent. You  _are untouched_.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes, then wipes at them angrily. “Semantics.”  
  
“No,  _truth_.” Thorin pulls Bilbo's hand to his lips again, kissing cool knuckles and holding on even as Bilbo still tries to pull (half-heartedly) away.  
  
“The innocence you so look forward to taking from me is already  _taken_ , my lord,” Bilbo says coldly. “Azog got there first and he ruined me beyond all notions of innocence. What you want is a  _lie_ —a memory of a person who is dead. And I may look like him and sound like him, but I'll nevermore  _be_  him.” His gaze hardens once more. “I'm not the person you think you love. I'm not the hobbit that ran out his door that morning, nor am I even the hobbit who lay with you this morning, before Lord Elrond came with his potions and serums.”  
  
Squeezing Bilbo's hand and searching those cold, flat eyes, Thorin scowls.  
  
“You think that all I desire of you is to take your innocence? That the only facet of you that I love is the simplest, most naïve one to be had?” Thorin searches Bilbo's walled-off, angry eyes once again, and can see that Bilbo thinks  _exactly_  that. He sighs heavily, suddenly very tired. “You think that I do not know who you  _truly are_ —not just the facets of your  _personality_ , but the _immutable_  parts of your  _character_ , such as your courage, your sense of right and wrong, your nobility in the face of fear and horror? You think that I don't see those parts of you— _all_  of your parts—that I don't love them  _all_  with a passion that would put Smaug's fire to shame?”  
  
There's a flicker in those chilly eyes, and the wall-like anger, at least, begins to crumble, only to be replaced by hurt and frustation.  
  
“No, Thorin,” Bilbo says, swiping at his eyes again before tears can fall. “It is but a shadow and a thought that you love. I'm neither courageous, nor righteous, nor noble. Not really. All I do—all I've  _ever_  done is the best I could do at the time.”  
  
“And your best, my love, my own, is far better than that of anyone I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.”  
  
Bilbo groans, covering his face with his hand for long moments before speaking. “Thorin— _damnitall, why_  won't you understand? Why do you insist on seeing only what  _you wish_  to see, when what's actually there is entirely different?” he demands with no small measure of despair. “Will you not  _see_ , at long last, what I am, now?”  
  
“My love, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and when  _I_  behold you . . . when the  _King Under the Mountain_  beholds you—and that is no perception to be cast off lightly—he sees his perfect match. His evening star. The mate of his body and his heart. The only person he'll  _ever_  love—and love for-ever, no matter  _what_.” One of Thorin's hands lets go of Bilbo's to reach out and caress his cheek with the tips of rough, callused fingers. He's both surprised and pleased when Bilbo does not pull away. Granted, he does not lean into the touch as usual, but he does not pull away either.  
  
At least not at first. It is only after a few minutes of such caressing and staring into each other's eyes that Bilbo  _does_ , in fact, pull away, bitterly, his mouth trembling. “You're a fool.”  
  
“Where you are concerned? Of course.” Thorin finds himself smiling as he lowers his hand to the bed. “It is the prerogative of kings to be fools when it comes to love.”  
  
Bilbo's lips no longer tremble, but twitch as if he would smile, too. But then he glowers, as if to make up for that momentary lapse. “You're right about one thing: You're the King Under the Mountain. The most powerful king in the world. And thus you deserve  _better_  than—”  
  
“I deserve whatever I want.” Thorin's smile turns wry when Bilbo rolls his eyes. “And what I want is  _you_. Nothing more.”  
  
“An orc's cast-off.” Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up under his fringe, and now Thorin is quite suddnly glowering and glaring, and squeezing Bilbo's hand rather too tight.  
  
“I will not have anyone— _anyone_ —speak of my future consort that way. Not even  _you_ , Master Baggins.”  
  
“So you mean to banish truth fom your halls, then?” Bilbo begins yanking on his hand again, making a frustrated sound when Thorin won't allow him to pull away. “Because, if we're being honest, that's what I am. Azog the defiler  _used me_ —used me  _up_ —then threw me away like last week's rubbish. Or would have, if you'd let him.” Finally giving up on freeing his hand, Bilbo makes a frustrated noise and glares right back at Thorin. “And you never  _did_  tell me why, Thorin.”  
  
Forcing his glower away, Thorin tries to make his voice as even and mild as possible. Reminds himself that it is not Bilbo he's angry at, and even it it were, anger will serve neither of them well, at this point. “Why, what, Master Baggins?”  
  
Frowning as if Thorin's being dismayingly obtuse, Bilbo sighs and looks down at their hands once more. “Why you didn't let him kill me when he was done.”  
  
Another wave of guilt, regret, and remorse washes over Thorin, as well as a sense of having failed this person whom he loves beyond all reasonable meaning of the word. But he answers, and honestly, nonetheless. “It was . . . not I who stayed Azog's hand when he would have killed you. Though I would have, had I been able. It was  _Fili and Kili_  who saved you.  _I_  . . . could not even move to lift my sword arm, let alone my sword. I was helpless and you were as good as dead, but for my nephews.” Thorin exhales slowly, shakily. “For this I owe them more than I will ever be able to repay.”  
  
“Perhaps . . . perhaps it would have been better for all concerned if they'd let Azog kill me,” Bilbo murmurs so softly, Thorin only barely hears him. But hear Bilbo, he does, and it washes away his own bitter guilt in an instant tidal wave of rage.  
  
“Say that again,” he growls, yanking Bilbo forward by the hand, ignoring the startled yelp that accompanies that yanking, and grabbing Bilbo's other hand, as well. Startled, wet, slightly frightened eyes meet Thorin's own. “Look me in the eyes and tell me, here, now, that Bilbo Baggins, dead at the hands of Azog the defiler, is what would have been best for the world . . . for my company . . . for  _me_.”  
  
And Thorin glares hard into Bilbo's wavering, tear-filled eyes until, with a shaking inhalation of his own, Bilbo looks down, the shine in those eyes finally spilling over with Bilbo's hands caught and unable to wipe it away first.  
  
“Come, now, Master Baggins, you are no coward. So look me in my eyes and tell me what you truly think? Do you think the world would be a better place without you in it? Without you and the lives you've saved? Do you think  _I_  would be a better person, for not having you?” Thorin leans closer, freeing one of Bilbo's hands to cup his face tenderly, sighing himself when their noses brush and their foreheads lean together. “Do you really think this, my love? Do you wish Azog had killed you?”  
  
At this shaking whisper, Bilbo lets out that same breath—which shakes at least as much—his free hand coming up to card gently through Thorin's hair as ever it has.  
  
“I . . . I don't know,” he replies quietly, his voice choked and small. “I only know that I hurt so very much. And it has been a long time since I  _didn't_  hurt—so long that I cannot remember what it's like not to constantly suffer. I only know that if death is what will prevent that sufering, then I should have died a year ago, before that suffering could brand itself on my heart and in my bones.” Bilbo's eyes are, this close, nothing but that vulnerable shine once more. But they're steady and nakedly honest on Thorin's. “It  _hurts so much_ , Thorin, simply to be alive. It hurts more than I thought anything ever could, and I fear the day Lord Elrond tells me that this is as well as I'll ever get. For if that's true, then I would drink the rest of my Dreamless Sleep in one sitting and end it that way—”  
  
“No, my love,” Thorin murmurs quickly, kissing the awful words from lips that are not merely sweet, but  _bitter_ -sweet, now. “You  _will_  get better. This is only the beginning of your journey—and that's what healing is . . . Lord Elrond said it's a continuous journey that will change as you change. And remember, he said that there's nothing you could not do if you put your mind and heart to it.  _Nothing_. You will be  _happy_  again, this I swear.”  
  
“But,” Bilbo begins, only to have the rest of his words kissed away by Thorin, who's realized that the bitterness mixed in with that sweetness was just from Lord Elrond's potions, and that once kissed clean of sedatives and antipyretics, Bilbo's lips are as sweet as ever. Thorin moans desperately, pulling the hobbit into his arms, and Bilbo goes hesitantly . . . but he goes, shuddering and cleaving close to Thorin as if he's never wished to be any place else.  
  
“Thorin. . . .” he tries to speak yet again, and this time Thorin lets him, turning his kisses down to Bilbo's throat, where beats the pulse which means that no matter what else, Bilbo is still alive _right now. For_  now. And for Thorin, that will have to be enough.  
  
For  _now_.  
  
“What if I'm not strong enough to heal?” Bilbo gasps out as Thorin worries a love-mark onto the skin near the base of Bilbo's throat. “What if the hurt never gets any better? What if I  _always_  feel like this? What's the point of living if I'm always in  _pain_?”  
  
Thorin sucks another mark on Bilbo's fair skin, occasioning another soft, breathy gasp, then sits up to meet the worried eyes that he loves.  
  
“ _Always_  in pain?” he asks, dropping his hand to the covers over Bilbo's thigh and pulling them off. Bilbo shivers, and some of that worry in his eyes is eclipsed by another emotion entirely.  
  
“N-no . . . not  _always_ , I suppose,” he exhales as Thorin's hand settles on his bare thigh, moving neither up it nor down. But the muscles under Thorin's palm jump and twitch like excited tadpoles. “When you touch me, I only ever feel . . .  _happy_. Even now . . . even remembering what I remember, your touch is . . .  _the most amazing_  thing in the world to me, and I would surely rather die than never again feel your body on mine.” Now, that worry returns, brighter and more apparent than ever. “But I don't understand how you can bear to even  _look_  at me, let alone _touch_  me. Even in so small a way as  _this_.”  
  
“Because I  _love_  you. Because you are  _beautiful_. Because  _nothing_  can mitigate the beauty of which I speak and with which I have fallen so irevocably in love. A beauty of spirit like none I have ever before seen.” Thorin sighs, squeezing hand and thigh firmly, stealing a kiss that, as all their kisses, lasts for longer than he means it to. “You have taken up residence at the very core of me. You are my  _heart_. It is  _you_  I strive to be worthy of with my words and deeds—you whom I thank Durin for placing in my road. You whom I will always want and need and love till time and times are done.”  
  
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo bursts into tears, bowing his head to hide his face in Thorin's chest. “How are you not  _disgusted_  by me?  _I'm_  disgusted by me!”  
  
Kissing Bilbo's hair, Thorin makes a mental note to double the bounty on Azog's miserable head. “I am  _disgusted_  by Azog the defiler. By every vile thing he stands for and represents. By every vile thing he's ever done. But at no time have I ever been or will I ever be disgusted by  _you_.”  
  
“Then why—” Bilbo looks up at Thorin reluctantly, his eyes more vulnerable and defenseless than Thorin's ever seen them . . . and that's saying something. “Why would you not make love to me, even when I begged it of you? And don't tell me you were  _just_  trying to protect me. There was more to it than that. But if not disgust, then  _what_?”  
  
Thorin glances away from Bilbo, down at his hand where it rests on Bilbo's thigh. He says nothing for what feels to him like hours, but Bilbo silently waits him out. Until finally, Thorin's answer is drawn from him slowly and painfully, as poison from a partially-closed wound.  
  
“I would not make love to you because . . . because I would not have you remember Azog hurting you while I am . . . trying to love you.” Looking up now, into Bilbo's surprised eyes, Thorin squares his shoulders and admits to his love what he can still barely admit to himself. “I feared that while I was inside you . . . the lost memories would return to you and that if they returned to you in such a fashion . . . you would never desire me again.  
  
“I feared that you would come to equate my touch with Azog's for everafter.”  
  
Bilbo's frowning once more, but this time as if he's suddenly understanding something that has been eluding him for a long while.  
  
“You thought that I—oh,  _Thorin_!” Bilbo throws himself into Thorin's arms once more, hugging him tight, arms wound around Thorin's neck like those of a drowning man. Thorin can only return the embrace, his own face buried in Bilbo's shoulder.  
  
“—never,  _ever_  happen, my lord—my  _love_!” Bilbo laughs, water-logged and self-deprecating. “I would  _never—could never—_ equate the two of you in  _any_  way! You  _must_  believe me when I say love makes  _all_  the difference! All the difference in the  _world_!”  
  
Bilbo laughs again and sits back, his face wet, but shining, shining, shining with happiness. “You must not fear that I will recall  _that_ —or much of anything else, my own first name included—when you touch me. And when you're finally, at long last,  _inside me_ , there will be no room, and I do mean that both literally and figuratively, for anything or anyone but  _you_ , my king. Only ever you.”  
  
Thorin lets the hope these words foster—pretty words . . . and as earnest and true as any Bilbo's ever spoken to him—rise within him. Lets that hope overtake him, and lets the worshipful, wanting look in Bilbo's lovely eyes make him bold.  
  
He kisses his hobbit hungrily, exploring the familiar landscape of his mouth with a tongue that will forever seek out that sweetness no matter how much of it he has tasted. The hand on Bilbo's thigh begins the slow slide upward, and under Thorin's old tunic; Thorin's other hand tugs up the back of the tunic and settles on the warm, smooth skin of the small of Bilbo's back, urging the hobbit closer even as his hand slides down to the tempting curve of Bilbo's backside.  
  
Bilbo, meanwhile, goes into Thorin's possessive embrace without hesitation, moaning and surrendering happily to the kisses and touches that accompany it. His arms wrap even tighter around Thorin and he makes to lay down, trying to pull Thorin down on top of him, murmuring _yes_ es into their kisses.  
  
“My love,” Thorin starts to balk at this precipitous step, but Bilbo looks into his eyes and shakes his head once, his eyes intent and intense.  
  
“No, Thorin. No more protecting me. No more waiting,” he says softly—though there is no question or uncertainty in his tone or those certain eyes. “No more mistaken assumptions. I need you too much to keep going on without you, as I have been.” Searching Thorin's eyes, Bilbo reaches between them, pulling up the hand that'd stopped just before it touched his hardening prick, until it rests firmly there. Thorin's eyes flutter shut as he strokes Bilbo to full hardness. His imagination—his  _desires_  run wild across the landscape of his mind for many moments. . . .  
  
“Please make love to me,” his hobbit breathes against his lips with a quiet, desperate yearning that makes Thorin realize, almost with a start, that Bilbo isn't the only one who's hard. Isn't the only one who desires the joining of their bodies more than mere words can accurately convey.  
  
And yet. . . .  
  
Thorin kisses Bilbo briefly, then removes his hands, and sits up and back, looking at the absolutely beautiful creature on display in his bed, eyes sparkling and heated, cheeks flushed, tunic pushed up to reveal a prick as beautiful and flushed as the rest of him . . . Thorin stares and stares, his eyes devouring his lover as voraciously as he would devour a good meal.  
  
“You ravish me with your eyes, my lord,” Bilbo murmurs archly, leaning back on his elbows amongst the askew pillows, and beckoning Thorin closer with one crooked finger and the further spreading of well-shaped legs. “Now, ravish me with the  _rest_  of you.”  
  
“I would, my love,” Thorin says lowly, finally looking away from Bilbo, though his eyes have not nearly had their fill of such ravishment as he's capable of at this time. “With mouth and hands and prick, I would take you until neither of us had the  _strength_  to move from this bed.”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Bilbo breathes, and his eyes are wide and fiery with desire when Thorin risks a quick glance back at him. Then some of that ardor leaves his eyes as something else Thorin had said registers with him. “Wait,  _would_?”  
  
Thorin sighs and shakes his head again, once more looking away. “I am sorry, my love, but I still cannot. Not yet.” He pauses, hands clenching on his knees. “I do not mean to tease you . . . to make you think that the time has finally come. But my control over my own desires is imperfect, at best. At least where  _you_  are concerned. I forget myself and even my honor in your arms. Such things cease to matter—or seem to until I am reminded of them.”  
  
Silence greets this admission. Silence that's fraught with more powerfully felt emotions than Thorin can name or number. Until at last Bilbo laughs mirthlessly.  
  
“Still trying to protect me, eh, Master Oakenshield?” he asks sarcastically and Thorin winces, but manages to look at Bilbo and meet those disappointed, hurt,  _angry_  eyes.  
  
“Trying to protect us  _both_ ,” he says without any hope that Bilbo will hear—or even suspect what Thorin cannot bring himself to admit aloud.  
  
Bilbo laughs again, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before glaring at Thorin again, though there's more hurt shining out of those eyes than anger, now.  
  
“Protect us from what? The night of amazing passion we could be having right now?” Snorting, Bilbo yanks down his tunic and grabs the covers from where they lay, bunched between himself and Thorin. Pulls them up, practically to his chin. “Well, thank you, ever so much, for sparing us both  _that_  horror!”  
  
Thorin sighs again, kicking himself for not simply taking Bilbo into his arms and giving him what he wants. But even now, he could no more do something that he is  _certain_ —however skewed that certainty—would harm Bilbo deeply, than he could put out his own eyes. And at this point, harming Bilbo further would be worse than the loss of his sight. “Bilbo, my love—”  
  
“ _Don't_ ,” Bilbo snaps, then hangs his head wearily, in deference that makes Thorin feel uncomfortable, and as if Bilbo would put the distance of rank between them as a dividing wedge. “I—I apologize, my king. But if you're waiting for me to be completely healed before you have me, then you may be waiting for a very long time.”  
  
Thorin starts, to hear Lord Elrond's words come from Bilbo's lips. And on the heels of that thought, he remembers something else Lord Elrond had said. Something that suddenly, finally, makes sense, as he admits to himself that  _yes_ , the elven lord had been right about  _that_ , too.  
  
“I would wait  _for-ever_  to have you, my love,” Thorin says—almost pleadingly, and Bilbo's brow furrows.  
  
“But you don't  _have_  to wait that long, Thorin! I'm  _here. Now_!” he whispers, more tears springing to his eyes. “I'm  _here_ , and I love—”  
  
Just then, the clock in the main room chimes and there's a knock at the door to their chambers simultaneously, startling them both. But nonetheless Bilbo's eyes hold Thorin's, and Thorin smiles a tight, sad smile as he reaches out to brush his fingers tenderly across Bilbo's cheek.  
  
Bilbo doesn't lean into the touch, but neither does he pull away.  
  
“That'll be Lord Elrond, come to check on you.” It is not what Thorin wants to say, merely what he is  _able_  to say. And it is not even close to enough to close the growing gulf between them, he can see by the disappointed lines in which Bilbo's face settles.  
  
But the hobbit nods once, looking away, off toward the dwindling fire. “Best not to keep him waiting, then.” His tone is matter-of-fact and all business . . . his eyes anything but. Thorin both curses and blesses the timing of the elf at his door, and opens his mouth to speak—to spout some temporizing phrase or tepid apology— _anything_  to take away that hurt, uncomprehending shine in Bilbo's eyes. But instead of  _anything_ , what comes out—at long last—is the truth, simple and unvarnished:  
  
“You are . . . not the only one who needs time to heal and adjust, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin says quietly, and at great pain to himself. Pain that burns and cleanses, and makes him feel both weaker and stronger than he ever has before. . . .  
  
Then he's standing and striding toward the doors, Bilbo's surprised and tangible gaze on him as heavy as sunlight until, with a soft click, Thorin closes the doors to their bedchamber between them.  
  
He leans on the shut doors for long moments, breathing deeply and blinking away stinging tears of frustration, confusion, and fear. . . before finally straightening his clothes—his erection has wilted quickly and enough that the tunic hides what's left of it adequately—and hurrying to let Lord Elrond in.  
  
Thorin does not know what must come next in the dance that is his relationship with Bilbo Baggins—if he, himself, has stepped on Bilbo's resilient, but still mere flesh-and-bones toes too many times for the dance to be redeemed—and can only hope the elven lord, wise, heretofore, in matters of the heart, can tell him.  
  
But he fears, more than anything, the answer he may get.


	14. Dawn of a New Age 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it started we had high hopes/ Now my back's on the line/ My back's on the ropes/ When it started we were alright/ But night makes a fool of us in daylight/ Yeah, we were dyin' of frustration/ Saying: “Lord lead me not into temptation”/ But it's not easy when she turns you on. . . ./ Said: “Stay gone/ If you'd only, if you'd only say yes/ Whether you will's anybody's guess/ God only, God knows I'm trying my best/ But I'm just so tired of this loneliness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I wish I owned them. . . .  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“He awoke, and you did not send for me.”  
  
One look at Thorin's doubtlessly miserable face and this is what Lord Elrond says when the guards have swept the doors shut behind him.  
  
For a moment, Thorin is puzzled. Then he remembers what he swore to do before Lord Elrond had left a few hours earlier. He'd promised to send for the elven lord the moment Bilbo woke up, and—  
  
 _And, to my no doubt everlasting regret, I forgot to do so,_  Thorin thinks, flushing guiltily, turning away from Lord Elrond's stern, displeased face.  _What hurts might I have saved myself and Bilbo had I but remembered my promise and kept it?_  
  
“I . . . forgot to have one of my guards fetch you, for which I apologize. But I'll not be taken to task like a child by his elder,” Thorin asserts stiffly, though he realizes that is  _exactly_  what he is, given their disparate ages. Such a realization does not improve his temperament, though he understands that he must hold himself in check—that more of his  _famed_  self-control must be brought into play.  
  
And so well it's served him during the past half hour. . . .  
  
Thorin stalks over to the almost cold fireplace and sits, waving at the other chair which he'd moved from his office to replace the tall chair, that still sits near Bilbo's bedside. This replacement chair, however, is dwarf- or hobbit-sized.  
  
But Lord Elrond, also with a sigh, joins Thorin at the nearly dead fire, sitting as if the chair isn't far too short to be comfortable for someone with an elf's long legs.  
  
“You must tell me everything that was said, son of Thrain,” he insists wearily, glancing at Thorin once, piercingly, seeming to sense that there is aught that Thorin would keep back. “And everything that was  _done_. Leave nothing out, for your Master Baggins' sake and for your own.”  
  
Blushing hotly enough that even in the darkened main chamber, such a red must show up tellingly, Thorin glares into the fire, hands clenching on the already splintering armrests of his chair and—  
  
—he does as he's told. Every word, every glance . . . every kiss and every touch, his blush at first becoming a blanch as he recalls Bilbo's words—his doubt of Thorin's love and his desire for death, which Thorin had only been able to chase away—though probably not  _far_ —by making matters ever so much worse. By bringing another desire, entirely, into play.  
  
Then that blanch turns into a blush once more as Thorin describes the overwhelming impulse to touch Bilbo and to  _keep_  touching him, till the hobbit had yet again begun begging Thorin to make love to him at long last. . . .  
  
And the blush drains away to a blanch once again as Thorin tells of his eventual demurring against such an act and his reasons why, despite desiring it so greatly.  
  
At the end of the telling, Lord Elrond certainly looks, if anything, even  _less_  pleased than he had before it. But more  _worried_ , however, than anything else.  
  
“And you say it was only half an hour he was awake before I arrived?” he asks Thorin, who nods once.  
  
“Perhaps less, even.”  _Though it was more than enough time for me to do my share of damage,_ he thinks tiredly.  
  
Lord Elrond snorts, as if hearing that thought. “You two cerainly do not waste any time. The passion that you naturally feel for each other overwhelms you at the . . . strangest moments, shall we say?”  
  
“At  _all_  moments, Lord Elrond,” Thorin corrects grimly, meeting the elven lord's eyes briefly before looking off at the dwindling flames once more. “This passion afflicts us at every moment of every day—at least when we're around each other. And each time we give in to it, it escalates. And Master Baggins  _does not_  realize he must control himself for his own sake, and thus  _does not_ control himself, and I . . . find that I  _cannot_  control myself around him. Even now, even with all that he's been through and is still facing, I would have him with no regard for anything  _other_ than the having of him. I fear that my own desires and frustrations are . . . driving me mad,” he adds quietly, this last drawn from him most unwillingly.  
  
Lord Elrond sighs again and Thorin can feel that ancient, intent gaze on him, weighing and measuring him like a pound of flour at market.  
  
“Perhaps,” Lord Elrond says finally, slowly, “you are not far off the mark, King Thorin.”  
  
Surprised, Thorin looks up at Lord Elrond to find him smiling sadly. “The bond between the two of you is stronger than most. Certainly stronger than nearly any I've ever come across. The temptation for both of you to be together as lovers is  _titanic_ , beyond all doubt. And I applaud _you_ , especially, for keeping yourself in check for Master Baggins' sake. Though I have my doubts that giving in to those desires will be as calamitous as you seem to think.” Lord Elrond pauses, but goes on before Thorin can disagree with him. “At any rate, whether now or prior to now, or at some point in future is the best time for such a joining is moot, when only one of you is  _ready_ for that step.”  
  
Thorin nods, at last in complete agreement. “Aye. I must regain control of myself when I am around him, if only for his sake, until such a time as he  _is_  ready.”  
  
“When I spoke of readiness, it was not you of whom I spoke, King Thorin, for you are many things, but far down on that list is  _ready_.” Lord Elrond says in his customarily mild tone. And despite Thorin's own revelation of earlier—that Bilbo is not the only one who needs time to heal and adjust—his jaw drops, nonetheless.  
  
Lord Elrond nods as if he can see that revelation happening to Thorin all over again. “Yes, son of Thrain, it is  _you_  who must heal first to be ready for that final step—that sealing of your love. Master Baggins, if he may be taken at his word and by his deeds, has healed enough that such an act would not likely cause him harm. But you, King Thorin . . . are in no state yet to be with Master Baggins in such a way. I believe it would harm  _you greatly_.”  
  
Hanging his head and letting out a sigh of his own, Thorin blinks away the stinging behind his eyes. “What healing is it that I must do? Was I the one who was violated? Was I the one who spent a year— _more_ —avoiding sleep and the touch of others, for such was the intensity of my fear of Azog and my aversion to touch?” Thorin risks a glance at Lord Elrond, never minding the remnants of tears in his eyes. “What healing do I need to do? What is the cause of my missish whinging, but selfishness and self-indulgence at its worst, disguised as a desire to protect Master Baggins? What is my  _fear_  but cruel teasing of the one I love with that which I refuse to give him?”  
  
Lord Elrond's sad smile fades into a worried furrow of brow and a slight frown. “Your fear is exactly that, King Thorin.  _Fear_. Fear that someone you love will be harmed by you, however unintentionally. And that that harm will damage him beyond healing, so that he cannot bear even  _your_  touch any longer. This fear is valid . . . at least as of two months ago. And your so-called 'cruel teasing' is the waxing and waning of your sense of protectiveness in the face of your intense and natural desires. Your mind and heart are as divided as Master Baggins' once were. You  _wish_  to trust that he knows what is best for himself, but you fear losing him by giving in to that very urge to trust him.”  
  
Hanging his head again, Thorin is unable to keep his vision from blurring, nor to stop the slow drip of tears on his breeches.  
  
“Is there not some potion of your divising that can cure me, as you cured Master Baggins?” he asks softly, his voice choked and hoarse around the tears that would undo him completely. “Is there no cure for what ails Thorin Oakenshield?”  
  
Lord Elrond is silent for eternal minutes before answering gently. “I did not  _cure_  Master Baggins. I merely helped him further along the road of healing. There is no panacea for the problems he faces or for the problems  _you_  face, son of Thrain, other than time. Time, as you, yourself, said so wisely, to heal and adjust. For your illness is not as simple or direct as Master Baggins'. It does not begin and end with the forgetting of, then remembering and acknowledging of a trauma, but instead with the  _acceptance_  of its impact on you—of several traumas in your past, which you have never been given either the time or space to accept, let alone to begin to heal from—and how they have changed you. Always has responsibility to your family and your people taken this time from you. But you must realize, Thorin Oakenshield, that now, at last, _your time_  has come. It is time not only for Master Baggins to begin to heal, but for  _you_  to start that journey, as well. It is  _imperative_  that you do so at long last, or I fear for your sanity as I once feared for Master Baggins'.”  
  
“And how,” Thorin starts raspily, then clears his throat. Tells himself that the elven lord at least no longer fears as much for Bilbo's health. And that is, indeed, something. “How would I even begin to heal such wounds as I cannot even fathom, let alone  _recognize_?”  
  
Lord Elrond takes a deep, steadying breath, and Thorin steels himself as well, knowing he won't like what's about to be said.  
  
“The first thing I would suggest, King Thorin, since you are as yet uncomfortable with your intensifying desire for Master Baggins, and are needlessly suffering because of your struggles with it . . . would be for you and Master Baggins to no longer share a bed.”  
  
“No. Absolutely not. That is  _beyond_  unacceptable,” a voice from behind them says in flat negation, before Thorin can even express his own resistance—admittedly half-hearted—to such a suggestion.  
  
Both Thorin and Lord Elrond—the latter of whom does  _not_  seem at all startled or surprised—stand and turn to face Bilbo Baggins, who is standing in the doorway to the bedchamber, dressed in his own clothing of brown trousers, white shirt, and green waistcoat. His hair, though still somewhat unruly, has been combed and tamed almost into submission, and he looks . . . lovely. Heart-breakingly lovely and fragile.  
  
But strong, too, for all that he's standing alone, eyes wide, but determined, bearing up stalwartly under the weight of his lover's and healer's gazes.  
  
“I will not be leaving King Thorin's bed, Lord Elrond. That is not up for debate. I think King Thorin will agree with me, on this.” Bilbo's eyes dart to Thorin, who nods almost helplessly, holding out his hand. Bilbo blinks, but hurries forward to take it, though he does not draw especially close to Thorin to do so. Instead he looks up at Lord Elrond somewhat defiantly.  
  
“I heard what you both said.  _All_  of it. And if King Thorin needs to heal before we can make love, then I would  _be here_  to  _help him heal_  . . . not off in some distant chambers, unable to sleep, with yards and guards between us.” Bilbo takes a steadying breath of his own and squeezes Thorin's hand. “I will not pressure him to make love to me anymore. I will wait until  _he_  has healed enough to trust us both. I  _can_  control myself. We  _both_  can. And we  _will_  . . . right, Thorin?”  
  
And Bilbo turns those determined, but now pleading eyes on Thorin who, once more, as one helpless, reaches up to caress Bilbo's soft cheek. His hobbit leans into that tender touch briefly—very briefly—before pulling away.  
  
Thorin's fingers follow, seeking out that smooth, warm skin, desiring above everything to feel it graze under his rough fingertips . . . and this time, Bilbo does not pull away, merely stares up into Thorin's eyes, his own filling with tears as moments pass and neither of them pull away, but instead draw even closer, their guest completely forgotten in their absorption with each other.  
  
Thorin is, he realizes even as he does nothing to cease its progress, giving in to the very passion that lead them to the pass they're in. For it always starts thus, does it not? Simple, innocent caresses and kisses that become  _more_  as time and circumstance allows?  
  
He sees this same knowledge and sudden understanding in Bilbo's eyes as well, and the hobbit shakes his head, trying to free his fingers from their linking with Thorin's. But Thorin will not let him go.  _Cannot_  let him go . . . only pull him closer, till they're sharing air.  
  
“Oh, my love,” Bilbo sighs both happily and miserably, his eyes closing on that wet shine even as he laughs. It is laden with rue, this laugh, not merry or even wry. “Even if we brought another bed into the bedchamber and slept apart that way, one or the other of us would find our way into the other's bed and arms . . . and we would not turn the other away. Shortly, I'd be begging you to make love to me and you'd be regretfully, but ever so kindly turning me down . . . or worse, giving in at a time that doesn't feel right for you, and I . . . I would not see you forced into such an act by impulses and circumstances you can't control. For  _I have lived that_  and it's . . . the very opposite of what I want our first time together to be.”  
  
“My love—” Thorin begins lowly, uncertain what his response to this will be, but knowing he must say  _something_. Must try to halt the sudden certainty and stoic acceptance he sees forming on Bilbo's face. But all that comes out is another: “My love.”  
  
And Bilbo opens his shining eyes again and smiles a trembling smile that Thorin wants desperately to kiss and tease into the wide, wonderful smile of which he knows Bilbo is capable. But somehow, he restrains himself. That does not, however, keep him silent. “How I desire you . . . so comely you are and fair!”  
  
“And I desire  _you_ , my noble and handsome king. I cannot  _help_  that,” Bilbo murmurs, taking a shaking breath as Thorin's fingers drift to his mouth and linger at his lips. Each word he speaks thereafter is a fleeting brush of a kiss to Thorin's fingertips. “I cannot help  _wanting_  you, but I _can_  help tempting you to do that for which you are not ready. I  _will not_  force you as I was so forced.”  
  
And before Thorin can gainsay  _that_ —before he can reassure Bilbo that letting his desires overtake him, even at the wrong time, would be nothing like what had been done to Bilbo—Bilbo is leaning in to kiss Thorin deeply, his hand come up to cup Thorin's face as he explores Thorin's mouth with the same focused zeal with which Thorin has always explored Bilbo's. Taken by surprise as he is, by the time Thorin surges into the kiss with a hungry moan, Bilbo is already gentling the kiss . . . then, before far too brief a time has passed, breaking it with several smaller, sweeter, slower kisses, and pulling away. Away from the kiss, and from Thorin's arms, which had somehow, without Thorin's command, wound themselves around Bilbo's waist. Away from Thorin's hands, which had settled without hesitation or shame on Bilbo's backside and held the hobbit tight against him.  
  
Away . . . before either of them can grow more than slightly hard and  _seek to do something about it_.  
  
And Thorin  _lets him go_ —even though it is at great pain to them both—because . . .  _he must_.  
  
Because he must.  
  
Bilbo smiles that trembly smile at Thorin, then aims it up at Lord Elrond, about whom Thorin had completely forgotten. He's watching them both with a grim, but otherwise inscrutable look on his long face.  
  
“Right, then. I suppose we're doing it your way, after all, my Lord Elrond. With a little help from Arlen or Muir, I can be back in my old rooms before midnight,” Bilbo tells the elven lord heavily, then looks back at Thorin, who still feels the ghost of Bilbo's warmth in his empty arms, and a stirring in bollocks and prick that the tunic will very shortly be doing little to conceal.  
  
Bilbo's trembly smile turns wry, as if he can read Thorin's thoughts, and the smile firms up gamely.  
  
“Just because I'm going back to my old rooms doesn't mean I don't love you more than my heart can bear in some moments,” he whispers shakily, reaching out to brush Thorin's hair back over his shoulder then combing his fingers through it. “It just means that I've finally stopped being selfish and I'm actually  _showing my love_  for the first time.” He laughs a little, disentangling his hand from Thorin's hair carefully. “Just . . . please know that I  _love you_ , Thorin Oakenshield. More than anything. And I will do  _whatever_  it takes to see  _you_  heal, as well. Even this.”  
  
Thorin finds himself nodding, unable to speak again because he does not trust himself to. For  _if_ he did speak, he would bid Bilbo stay and he knows that Bilbo would heed his bidding, for they are both weak when it comes to each other. Weak beyond common sense or the keeping of oaths no matter how necessary or honorable.  
  
He also sees this same knowledge reflected in Bilbo's eyes just before his hobbit turns away and marches back to the bedchamber with a mumbled: “I'll just—go pack my things.”  
  
The door to their—to  _Thorin's_  bedchamber closes gently behind Bilbo, and Thorin stares for long moments after it has. Then he's turning away from the door, his eyes meeting Lord Elrond's. Though not for long, for he cannot stomach the empathy he sees there. Does not want to be reminded of the elven lord's complete understanding of this situation.  
  
Nor does he wish to be reminded that Lord Elrond's parting from his lady is much farther away and will likely last for much, much longer. Such thoughts have no power to make him feel any better. They only make his worry worse.  
  
For what if this parting between himself and Bilbo becomes . . . permanent? What if such a permanent parting turns out to be  _best_  for Bilbo? For them  _both_  
  
 _Then I would die,_  Thorin knows with grim surety.  _For I cannot now live without him, or without the_ hope _of having him._  
  
“This is for the best, son of Thrain. And it is  _not_  for-ever. You must believe this,” Lord Elrond says softly, recalling Thorin to the moment at hand. And Thorin senses the elven lord reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder, and steps away. And away. And away, till he's striding to the doors to his chambers and has punched them wide open—Arlen and Muir, on the other side of the doors, squawk in bestartlement and no small discomfort as the doors no doubt rebound off their bodies—with fists clenched tight enough that blood will likely soon issue.  
  
He does not want or need empathy—not even Lord Elrond's.  
  
Thorin  _needs_ , very suddenly, to  _break_  himself against something stronger and harder than himself. Something as bedrock-solid as the roots of the mountain. Something that will let him bloody himself, aye, but not  _kill_  himself in the pursuit of relief from his own tortured thoughts.  
  
Yes, he very suddenly feels the need to  _fight_  . . .  _some_ thing.  
  
Or some _one_.  
  


*

  
  
It is nearly midnight when Thorin, bruised and a bit bloody, staggers away from the roped-off sparring ring in his private salle, quarter-staff left behind where he'd dropped it.  
  
“Enough,” he grunts tiredly, winded without having managed to fight the other to a draw, as he usually does—and certainly nowhere close to a  _win_. But he's achieved his objective of getting bloodied without winding up dead—though he suspects he'll wish otherwise when he wakes up in the morning, and his aches really make themselves known—and he's quite simply  _done_.  
  
Not that sparring's helped, much. Not nearly as much as such activity usually does, at any rate.  
  
“Feel better, then?” Dwalin demands rather amusedly when he catches up with Thorin at the arched entryway of the salle, having probably put both their staves back on the racks where he'd found them. No one respects a weapon like Dwalin, son of Fundin does.  
  
“No,” Thorin says, clipped and not even remotely inviting further inquiry. For if anything, despite the cracking-good fight—and what is likely a few loosened teeth and a definitely bloodied nose—he feels even worse than he did before. Frustrated and futile, angry and indescribably melancholy.  
  
Already missing his hobbit. . . .  
  
Next to him, Dwalin snorts and claps his back heartily, no doubt putting more cracks in Thorin's already aching spine. “Aye, that sounds about right.”  
  
“What do you know about it?” Thorin grouses, shrugging Dwalin's arm away when it settles companionably around his shoulders. Or at least he tries . . . he doesn't actually have any luck, despite not being in the mood for anyone's companionship save a certain hobbit.  
  
“I know that your problem, whatever it is, has something to do with that elf-lord that's  _visiting_ Erebor, or am I wrong?”  
  
Thorin glances at Dwalin warily and the other dwarf nods, his canny smile—it's rare, in Thorin's experience, that someone with Dwalin's prowess in fighting and war is also as generally canny as Dwalin has time and again proven himself to be . . . but still that canniness has a way of taking Thorin, and probably everyone except Balin by surprise, sometimes—creasing his weather-beaten face before turning a bit pained and troubled.  
  
“Naught but trouble, that lot, come sashaying in here, poking their noses in where they don't belong, trying to—to  _charm_  and subvert the more susceptible among us. . . .” Dwalin's pained smile becomes a frown, then a scowl, then an outright glare. “Naught but bloody trouble, them.”  
  
Thorin's frowning now, too. Though Lord Elrond's been rather too busy with himself and Bilbo, those two companions of his, whom Thorin hasn't seen since the night of their arrival, haven't done a damned thing since they got to Erebor but take tours of every place they're allowed to tour. Some places  _twice_. “Charm and subvert  _whom_? Of whom are they asking questions? And what  _kinds_  of questions?”  
  
Dwalin snorts angrily. “Anyone. Everyone. And about  _any_  damned thing. For example, that light-haired one—the one called  _Lannir_ 's been hanging about the boy like a bloody  _stench_ , peppering him with questions about Erebor's history, and the history of Durin's folk, no less. And he's no historian, if  _I've_  ever met one. So what's his interest in such ancient histories, eh?”  
  
“Hmph. Well, whatever he's asking about is nothing that can't probably be found in Erebor's library. To which they have access, anyway. Perhaps this . . . Lannir . . . simply prefers to hear history told than to read it,” Thorin dismisses, his own suspicions evaporating in favor of continuing to grouse about having to go back to his bare chambers now that Master Baggins is absent from them.  
  
Absent from what already feels like his  _life_. . . .  
  
“. . . cannot talk about anything  _but_  bloody  _Lannir_ —oh, Lannir's so  _smart_ , Lannir's so  _learned_ , Lannir's so bloody  _tall_ , Lannir-la-di-bloody-da!” Dwalin mimics in a ridiculous falsetto, then growls, that arm around Thorin's shoulders now at neck-level, and practically a headlock, now. “It's sickening the way  _Lannir's_  flattering the boy with all that attention and all those— _questions_!”  
  
“Is it really?” Thorin chokes out with faint interest as he focuses on loosening the arm around his neck. He cannot so much as budge it.  
  
“Really and truly—it's disgraceful!” That clench around Thorin's neck tightens, much to Thorin's dismay. “And elves being elves, he's probably a thousand years older than the boy—”  
  
“And what boy is that?” Thorin asks breathlessly, struggling to even walk with the grip Dwalin's got around his neck—sometimes the other dwarf forgets his own strength, when distracted—and wheezing like an elderly miner.  
  
Dwalin, meanwhile, gazes at Thorin as if Thorin's being purposefully obtuse. “What boy have I _been_  talking about?  _Ori_!”  
  
“Ah.” Thorin's starting to see dark spots before his eyes and that cannot be good.  
  
“ _He's letting_  himself be dazzled by that—that— _elf_  as if he has no more sense than Mahal gave a goose!” Dwalin growls again, striking out at the wall to their right and practically throttling his king in the process. Thorin staggers into Dwalin, who's glaring at the wall as if it's struck him back.  
  
“ _Dwalin_.” Thorin hacks out and halts their march through the royal wing—they're most of the way to Thorin's chambers, and Thorin does not particularly want his guard to see their captain inadvertantly strangling their  _king_.  
  
(He also—though he cannot admit this to himself—lingers because he does not wish to risk the chance that Bilbo is still there, removing his things. He does not want to see Bilbo now, because he knows that he'd likely ask the hobbit to stay and Bilbo . . . would.  
  
He would, Thorin knows, do anything Thorin asked of him.)  
  
“. . . wager our boy could take the skinny bastard in a fight  _and_  give him a run for his money where book-learning is concerned, too, so I don't see what's so bloody fascinating about  _Lannir of Imladris_ ,” Dwalin is saying, his fierce brows drawn inward above even fiercer eyes, his mouth—or rather the mustache above it—set in a truly vicious snarl, and—  
  
—and Thorin wonders if  _he'd_  been this obvious about his own feelings for Bilbo Baggins before the hobbit had moved into his rooms. Had his own jealousy of Master Bofur been so . . . apparent?  
  
He rather supposes it had been, and the thought actually makes him smile . . . almost. He genuinely cannot breathe at the moment and that makes smiling, or even standing upright a loser's bet.  
  
With enormous effort he finally manages, with all his strength, to pry Dwalin's arm just loose enough that he can slip out of the dwarf's now absent grasp. Dwalin doesn't even seem to have noticed, having punched the wall again in the midst of a rant that curses elves in general, and _Lannir of Imladris_  in specific.  
  
“Dwalin—have you tried telling Ori how you feel?” Thorin rasps suddenly, when he's caught his breath—a very  _Fili_  sort of question, and in the midst of Dwalin's continuing tirade against _pointy-eared interlopers_. It however  _does_  silence the brawny dwarf, his formerly fierce face shocked into a look of almost buffoonish surprise.  
  
“What's that?” he asks finally, and Thorin's the one to snort, this time, looking at Dwalin with new eyes. He's never known the other dwarf to indulge in daliances or entanglements of any sort—much as Thorin himself had rarely indulged in such things . . . neither of them seemed to have the time nor inclination to give their hearts or their common sense away—let alone to be actually smitten to the point of jealousy, with another.  
  
He'd have said of Dwalin—and of  _himself_ , once upon a time—that he was far too practical for such foolishness. . . .  
  
Now, it would seem, time has made fools of them  _both_.  
  
“Tell him his feelings are returned, Dwalin,” Thorin says sternly, but smiling somberly and clapping Dwalin's hard shoulder. Then he snorts again, putting together all the signs he's been seeing in Ori that—now that he's recalled seeing them in Bilbo Baggins after missing them for over a year—add up to something he feels blind for having overlooked for so long, even as distracted as he's been lately. Ori is, unless Thorin is sorely mistaken, a dwarf infatuated . . . and not hiding it very well, either. But then, neither is Dwalin, quite suddenly. “Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't done anything about the way the boy stares at you, before now.”  
  
“Stares at—there's been  _staring_?” Dwalin exclaims, that gobsmacked look taking his face once more. Thorin sighs, thinking:  _Fools, indeed._  “When was there staring?”  
  
“Only any time you two are in the same room together, such as at the morning meetings, where he makes the most ridiculous, calf-eyes at you whenver you speak. Not to mention that whenever you enter a room, Ori lights up like a bonfire, and when you leave a room, he stares after you like a bereft pup, Dwalin. Have you not  _noticed_  this?” Thorin asks, aware of the irony of himself not having noticed Bilbo's feelings for over a year, and even then having to be hit over the head with evidence of such feelings . . . only to in turn be the one to hit Dwalin over the head with  _Ori's_  feelings.  
  
Flushing—something Dwalin  _never_  does—the other dwarf splutters. “I've noticed no such staring!”  
  
“There are none so blind,” Thorin mutters to himself, then claps Dwalin's shoulder again. He meets the other dwarf's still startled eyes and tries on another smile that still doesn't feel especially mirthful. “A word of free advice, my old friend: Tell him how you  _feel_ , then take him to bed and don't let him out for the next three days. Do it before something—or  _someone_  comes along to spoil such happiness as you could make with him.”  
  
“But—but—” Dwalin's still spluttering, his broad shoulders slumped, his mustache drooping. “I— _he_ —Nori and Dori'd have my  _balls_! Rightfully so! He's a mere  _boy_! M' tattoos are older than him! So're my  _boots_!”  
  
“And if you waste time on all that nonsense, you're not nearly as canny as I thought you were, Dwalin, son of Fundin,” Thorin says, glaring at the captain of his personal guard. And it must be quite the glare because Dwalin leans back, ever so slightly.  
  
Then he sighs. “My king . . . it'd be  _madness_  to feel  _anything_  for that boy. The only thing madder would be  _acting upon those feelings_!”  
  
“No, the only thing madder would be letting a chance at happiness pass you by and pass you by, until something terrible comes along and steals that chance from under your nose.” Thorin exhales heavily, shaking his head. “Until nothing short of a miracle can salvage what you  _might_ have had, if you'd only had the bollocks to go and  _claim_  what always should've been  _yours_.”  
  
Dwalin opens his mouth to gainsay Thorin . . . then closes it again on whatever he'd have said. Searches Thorin's eyes quite intently, until he can no longer meet Thorin's gaze.  
  
“Aye. I reckon,” Dwalin starts slowly, putting a hand briefly on Thorin's shoulder again, “I reckon you know whereof you speak, your majesty.”  
  
To this, Thorin makes no reply, other than a tightening of his unhappy smile. But Dwalin seems to require no reply, having crossed his arms over his barrel of a chest. “Well. Right, you may be, but Nori and Dori'd still have my balls for earrings, if I so much as cast a glance in their little brother's direction.”  
  
“You're not wrong. But I think that you'll find that the hassle is worth it,” Thorin adds, laughing briefly at the image of  _Dori_ , of all people, taking on Dwalin . . . though Nori might actually have a chance at besting the older, larger dwarf. And who knows what the two brothers could do if they ganged up on Dwalin?  
  
Thorin's smile acquires some hints of amusement and he squeezes Dwalin's arm. “Anyway, I'm for bed. Thanks for the, er, exercise.”  
  
“Thanks for the advice, my king . . . by Durin, you still pack a wallop!” Dwalin says, sounding both surprised and pleased as he rolls his shoulders and cracks his back rather alarmingly. Then he sketches a sardonic little bow. A bow that Thorin copies before turning and continuing his weary, aching shuffle to his own empty—he hopes . . . and dreads—chambers.  
  
But when Thorin glances back once, Dwalin is still standing where he'd been left, scratching his bald head and looking as if he's been hit over it wih his own war-hammer.  
  


*

  
  
The door is answered almost immediately after the first knock. Not only as if Bilbo had been awake, but as if Thorin had been expected.  
  
Or as if  _someone_  had been expected, anyway.  
  
“My king,” Bilbo says breathlessly, bowing and stepping aside so that Thorin can enter his chambers. He's still dressed as he had been earlier. “I didn't expect to see you again, tonight.”  
  
“Did you not?” Thorin asks, one eyebrow quirking, and Bilbo blushes and stammers.  
  
“Well, I'd  _hoped_ , but that's not the same as expecting. And anyway, please excuse the mess and dust, I— _oh! Thorin_ , what's  _happened_  to you?” Bilbo asks, his eyes sweeping over Thorin's bruised, bloodied, rumpled, and ripped form before taking Thorin's hand and pulling him into his chambers. Thorin—who'd, instead of stopping at his own chambers to at least wash up and change his nearly destroyed clothing, had simply bypassed the turn-off for his own chambers and gone straight to Bilbo's old chambers—barely has the presence of mind to close Bilbo's door behind him, so overwhelmed is he by Bilbo's presence after even a few hours without the hobbit.  
  
“Sit, sit, I'll get some bandages and linament,” Bilbo's saying as he leads Thorin through the small anteroom leading to the as yet sparsely-furnished main room, where a fire blazes merrily and two chairs are drawn rather close to the hearth, one small table between them.  
  
 _Hoped for, but not expected?_  Thorin thinks, smiling a little as Bilbo sits him in the chair on the right and stares down at him sternly, but worriedly, too.  
  
“Were you sparring with Dwalin, again?” he demands, hands on his hips, his tone scolding and full of disapproval. But then he doesn't even wait around for an answer, muttering:  _of course, you were_ , and going to fetch the aforementioned bandages and linament from the small storage closet near his bedroom.  
  
Thorin, meanwhile, relaxes into the chair with a sigh, letting the fire soothe his bruised muscles and jangled bones. . . .  
  
When Bilbo comes back to the hearth, laying the items on the small table, he takes another good look at Thorin and tsks.  
  
“Alright. Off with it,” he commands, gesturing at the torn tunic. Thorin's eyebrow quirks again, but he obeys—slowly, in deference to his aching body. Then he drops the ruined tunic on the floor and Bilbo hisses in a breath at the bruises that cover Thorin's torso, even as he colors more brightly than can be accounted for by the light of the fire.  
  
“Erm,” he says, seeming momentarily at a loss while staring at Thorin's chest . . . then he's resolutely picking up a piece of cloth and the bottle of linament, and wetting the cloth liberally.  
  
“You really oughtn't to spar so hard, you know,” he chides, stepping closer—between Thorin's instantly spread legs—to dab at a large, rapidly coloring bruise just below Thorin's left shoulder. Bilbo's touch is light and hesitant at first, then surer and firmer, even as he avoids Thorin's gaze and focuses only on the bruise before him. His touch is comforting and missed, though the linament itself stings rather unpleasantly. “You could be seriously hurt, one of these days.”  
  
“Dwalin's an excellent fighter. He knows how and when to pull his punches and blows.” Thorin shrugs the shoulder that isn't being tended to, and Bilbo colors once again. “And sometimes, I just need to . . . hit something.”  _Or be hit_ by _it._  
  
Bilbo meets Thorin's eyes briefly, but candidly, then refocuses on the bruise. “I see,” he says, then sighs. “I'm sorry, Thorin. Sorry that I—if it was, in fact, I that did so—cause you such consternation. I don't  _mean_  to be such a drain on you, I just—”  
  
Catching the hand that's dabbing the linament—which smells awful and still stings like a hive full of bees, though the area's slowly going numb—on him, Thorin holds it for long moments after Bilbo's gasped and dropped the cloth into Thorin's lap.  
  
“You've done nothing wrong, my love,” Thorin whispers, pulling Bilbo's now-shaking hand to his lips. Bilbo inhales, sharp and shuddering, looking into Thorin's eyes again.  
  
“My lord—” Bilbo begins in a low, choked voice, and Thorin closes his eyes for a moment, pretending that desire is the only thing to be heard in that voice, not worry, and regret. Not the strength that Thorin understands is being brought to bear to keep Bilbo from breaking his earlier promise.  
  
And  _Thorin refuses_  to break that promise for Bilbo . . . but he  _needs_ , so very badly . . . just to feel the hobbit's body against his own. As reassurance and reminder.  
  
“Let me hold you, Bilbo,” he says softly, opening his eyes and gazing up into Bilbo's. The hobbit's own eyes widen. “Let me hold you only, for I need to feel you in my arms. I need this more than I need medicine, right now.”  
  
Bilbo swallows, his eyes still wide . . . then he nods once, stepping even closer, his legs brushing Thorin's thighs, his arms going around Thorin's neck even as Thorin pulls him into an embrace that's loose, at first, then grows tighter and tighter, till Bilbo's shivering in his arms, mostly because Thorin's shivers are shaking them both.  
  
His face buried in Bilbo's chest, Thorin breathes in the hobbit's gentle scent and lets himself be soothed—lets the ache of his injuries fade into the background as Bilbo strokes his hair and his own shivering stops. As he holds the only object of his desires in his arms. . . .  
  
“Tell me you are still  _mine_ ,” Thorin whispers, turning his face up to Bilbo's throat, pressing a tender kiss to the soft skin under his lips. This time, when Bilbo shivers, it originates with him and continues to Thorin. “Tell me you are  _still_  my love . . . still  _my own_  . . . still my precious burglar.”  
  
“Always, my lord.” Bilbo replies immediately, clutching Thorin tight even as Thorin clutches him back and nuzzles his throat. “Oh, Thorin . . . I will  _always_  be yours.”  
  
Thorin takes a deep breath—a final breath of Bilbo's scent, then nods and sits back, though reluctantly.  
  
Bilbo lets go of him with equal reluctance, taking a step back and several deep breaths of his own. He and Thorin stare into each other's eyes yearningly for long moments, Thorin not daring to look any lower than Bilbo's own wide, wanting eyes, for fear he'll see that Bilbo's as hard as he, himself, is.  
  
Finally Thorin clears his throat and Bilbo's eyes skitter off to several different points behind Thorin, before eventually coming back to settle on the bruise he'd been tending.  
  
Before Bilbo can reach for it, Thorin's retrieved the cloth from his lap and handed it to Bilbo, grateful when the hobbit does not look down, but merely takes the cloth and swallows again, his eyes ticking to Thorin's for a moment only.  
  
“Th-thank you, my king.” This is said in a low, breathless voice that has Thorin fighting not to do something as obvious as pull down his tunic or adjust his breeches.  
  
“Thank  _you_  Master Baggins,” he murmurs, placing his hands on the armrests of the chair so he does not fidget. Bilbo begins dabbing gently at his bruise once more. Now, instead of stinging, the area merely tingles. As does the rest of Thorin's confused and wearied body.  
  
And so the time passes. Silence reigns until Bilbo's clock chimes midnight. Neither of them call attention to the lateness of the hour, or the fact that Bilbo's not hurrying through treating Thorin's various bruises and scrapes.  
  
After he's thoroughly tended every injury the tunic had covered, Bilbo puts away the linament and bandages, and sits in the other chair with a sigh that's not unhappy.  
  
When he places his hand hesitantly on the small table between them, Thorin—who'd been watching Bilbo out of the corner of his eye—almost instantly covers it with his own. The hobbit's hand turns in Thorin's so that he's holding Thorin's hand back.  
  
And there they sit before the fire, watching the flames leap till they burn low. Neither of them speak, though they each occasionally squeeze the other's hand.  
  
It isn't  _everything_  Thorin wants, but for now . . . it is enough. It is enough.


	15. Dawn of a New Age 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes, winter settles in, and Thorin begins a journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I should be working on my second novel . . . ah, well. . . .  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Over the next weeks, Bilbo continues his walks and talks with Lord Elrond.  
  
Talks which lead right up to dinner time, practically, and thus Thorin, who it seems, only gets to see his hobbit at meal-times at least on work-days—Bilbo makes a point of showing up at Thorin's door with breakfast, and they eat the only meal they share by themselves in a partially awkward silence, speaking of inconsequentials—and admittedly as much as he wants on rest-days, never gets to ask how those talks are going, or even what they're about. For Lord Elrond has all but ceased his private talks with  _Thorin_.  
  
Bilbo, however, smoothly takes up those times as if he and Thorin have always walked and talked together thus. And so they do. At first they walk the road to New Dale—smiling at each other and blushing when they pass the small copse where they had their delightful interlude, but decidedly not stopping to reminisce or for a repeat—when the weather allows. Thorin is never without Goblin-cleaver on these walks, and two members of his personal guard always follow at a discreet distance, once Dwalin gets wind of this trend of theirs. Which he does rather quickly . . . and Thorin thinks it's through Ori, with whom Bilbo has once more begun speaking and visiting.  
  
All of their walks end before they reach the busy city that lay at the feet of Erebor's foothills. The road, itself, is quite busy with merchants and farmers doing the last of their brisk business with the Lonely Mountain before the snows come to stay for the winter and the road becomes all but impassable for weeks at a time.  
  
And despite Thorin's prediction that the snows would come early, the winter weather holds off for many days after it should have arrived. Neither he nor Bilbo can countenance it, so they simply take advantage of the good—if chill and windy—weather and walk whenever time and duties permit. On work-days, such walks take place along the battlements, or the road out of Erebor, and no farther.  
  
On rest-days, they often get quite close to New Dale before turning around, for Bilbo is, with the return of his memories, certainly  _better_  about handling crowds of people, such as at Court and in the Kitchens, or the merchants, farmers, miners, and businessmen that people the road to New Dale. But the city itself and its many bazaars is a mountain Bilbo cannot yet climb, even with Thorin by his side and a small guard of well-trained warriors at his back.  
  
(“I still half-expect to see  _him_  around every turn once we leave Erebor's halls,” Bilbo had admitted with more chagrin than shame after they'd returned from one such walk, and had sat down to lunch in Bilbo's rooms. “I still fear that he's out there, waiting for me . . . waiting to finish what he started and kill me. Hurt me again . . . and then kill me. . . .”  
  
“I have doubled the bounty on him, my love,” Thorin had said, covering Bilbo's small hand, which was still cool from outside and shaking from either that slight chill, fear, or both, and squeezing it. “I promise you this, if nothing else: One day, not far hence, I will present you with his head on a silver platter.”  
  
Bilbo had smiled and turned his hand in Thorin's, squeezing it back and gazing into Thorin's eyes with such faith and trust that Thorin had mentally tripled the bounty on Azog's head, and reminded himself to inform Balin.  
  
“Nothing says  _I adore you_  like the head of an orc on a silver platter, eh?” Bilbo's eyebrows had quirked up and Thorin had blushed, then cleared his throat gruffly.  
  
“Nothing, indeed. You need not fear him, Bilbo Baggins,” he'd reiterated, and Bilbo's smile was so sweet and tired, that Thorin's heart had felt over-full. He'd felt the need to make his promise again. "You nee not fear him."  
  
“I know I  _need not_  . . . and yet I do, nonetheless. For I have so much more to lose now, than I did a year ago, my king.” And he'd squeezed Thorin's hand again, then let go, quickly changing the subject before Thorin could seriously consider quadrupling the bounty.)  
  
But their talks on these walks and after are almost never about Azog the defiler or what happened to Bilbo. It is  _ancient history_ , Bilbo insists, usually waving away Thorin's inquiries into how he's bearing up under the weight of the memories.  
  
“Well, they're not pleasant to have, but . . . I do feel better for remembering. I  _think_. I can reason with myself about leaving my rooms alone. Can visit my friends and you at Court, again. And the night terrors have stopped.” Bilbo will smile gamely, but Thorin can hear what the hobbit  _isn't_ saying, and it's that even though the night terrors have stopped, more commonplace nightmares have begun in their stead.  
  
He still does not sleep what could ever be termed as  _well_ , and Lord Elrond has ended his and Thorin's time on The Dreamless Sleep, citing possible addiction and a need for their bodies to relearn how to sleep without such soporifics.  
  
Neither Bilbo nor Thorin are finding this an easy task. Particularly since they are still sleeping apart, even weeks after Lord Elrond had suggested they start doing so.  
  
By the time the snows start—at first they are light and whimsical, almost wondrous to walk in, and Thorin and Bilbo  _do_  . . . Bilbo catching flakes on his tongue and even convincing an entranced and enticed Thorin to do the same—Thorin has forgotten what it feels like to hold Bilbo in his arms of a morning, and kiss and touch his hobbit till they both come. He tells himself that he's forgotten the exact shade of dark blue—like the evening sky . . . like the waters of Kheled-zaram—Bilbo's eyes shade to when he  _especially_  wants Thorin, and yearns after him in such a way that neither subterfuge nor distraction can cover or except it.  
  
 _I have forgotten the scent of his hair and the taste of his skin . . . the feel of it under my fingertips and the way he shakes in my arms after he comes. And I have forgotten the sound of my name on his lips when he does so, stuttered and breathless,_  Thorin tells himself wistfully, and not so deep down knows himself to be a liar. Of necessity—for want of these things would have driven him mad in a matter of days, had he not willfully placed them out of his mind's, if not his heart's reach—but a liar, nonetheless.  
  
And yet for all that the physical distance between them seems wider than ever, and almost insurmountable—limited to hand-holding and, if Thorin is feeling bold, he'll kiss Bilbo's hand or palm, lingering in a way even his gazes dare not—Thorin has learned more about Bilbo Baggins than ever he knew. Has, of himself, spoken more than he has to any save, perhaps, Lord Elrond.  
  
And not merely of himself does he speak, but of his father, Thrain II, and of Thror . . . and even, quite a few times, of his brother, Frerin. Speaks, not so much of their deaths—though he does tell Bilbo first and foremost how they died, for such bravery deserves to be honored in telling—but of their lives. Of the people they were. He tells Bilbo about both Thror's and Thrain's penchant for spoiling Dis with whatever she desired (and her desires almost always ran to books and histories in a way none of Durin's descendants' ever had), their more than occasional exasperation with Frerin, who'd been practically born a berserker ( _born to die an early, but honorable death_ , Thror had always claimed . . . and that prophecy had certainly fulfilled itself below the Eastern Gate of Khazad-dum), and their unrelenting focus on training Thorin to be the king that they and the people had seen in him. A king that even now, Thorin does  _not_  see in _himself_.  
  
“But you are a  _great_  king, in word and in deed, my lord,” Bilbo had replied after Thorin had reluctantly spoken of this aloud, (a thing he'd never managed to do when talking with Lord Elrond, though the elven lord had likely divined more from Thorin's terse words and brooding silences than Thorin would ever be comfortable with  _anyone_  knowing). His eyes were earnest and adoring. “I know I'm biased, but inasmuch as I'm able to be objective about your reign thus far . . .it's certainly been dynamic. Unparalleled. You  _care_  about your people deply—and not just the dwarves, but the people of New Dale and of Laketown. You have cared all along, even when you wouldn't let yourself or anyone else see it. And you have built for us  _all_  a life of safety and security and plenty.”  
  
Pleased at these words, even though he'd agreed that Master Baggins was indeed biased, Thorin had flushed and pulled Bilbo's hand up to his lips, laying a soft, tender kiss on the palm like a benediction, and held it there for long moments, gazing into his love's sparkling, evening-eyes.  
  
Hurrying around them where they stood in the middle of the traffic to and from New Dale, on business of their own, dwarves and men had gone on their way. A few yards behind Thorin and Bilbo, the two guards, Dwalin's most trusted dwarves, had waited patiently for their king and his . . . companion . . . to resume their walk onward or turn around.  
  
“It might surprise you how often I feel like an imposter. How often I wish Thror and Thrain were here to advise me. Or Frerin to reassure me, rash and mercurial though he could be,” Thorin had murmured, straightening, and placing Bilbo's chilly hand on his arm, where he covered it. Bilbo had smiled his lovely smile, and after a few moments of simply basking in that smile and the feelings it inspired, Thorin had resumed their walk toward New Dale. Behind them, still at a discreet distance, the guards clinked along softly in their mail armor. “ _You_  see the successes and the effect they have. But  _I_  see the blunders I've made and the messes that have had to be cleaned up.”  
  
Bilbo had  _hmm_ ed. “Have there been many? Blunders, I mean?”  
  
“There've been . . . a few. Nothing that I haven't been able to straighten out with some effort and, of course, gold.” Thorin had snorted.  
  
“Well, I imagine King Thror had his share of blunders and messes when he was younger. And even when he was older.” Bilbo had leaned on Thorin's arm briefly. “We all have moments where we don't do the best thing, or even the right thing. Not for lack of trying, but just for simply having lost our way temporarily,” he'd said thoughtfully, frowning just a little. And as always, Thorin had wanted to kiss that frown away. “But the important thing is that we always  _find_  our way again. That we put right what went wrong, learn from our mistakes, and move on.”  
  
“Indeed,” Thorin had agreed gently, squeezing the hand under his own. It was slowly warming up. “You would have made a fine Thain of the Shire, I think. Wise and compassionate.”  
  
“Oh, go on.” Bilbo had blushed and laughed a little. “I'd have had to contend with my own cousin, Isengrim Took III, for that position, and I don't think I'd have won such a campaign. He's very popular.”  
  
“That doesn't mean you would not have been an excellent Thain, had you had the chance at it.” Thorin insists, only partially teasing, and Bilbo, still blushing, had rolled his eyes.  
  
“Hmph,” was all he'd said, and changed the subject. “I would hear more about you and Frerin as boys. And about Dis as a young girl . . . though I can scarcely imagine either you or her as children, laughing and running amok, so somber are you both, now!”  
  
“I'll have you know I was quite the . . . ramunctious lad, always looking for trouble and fun. Especially with Frerin to spur me on.”  
  
“I don't believe it!” Bilbo declares stolidly. “I've had no evidence of this rambunctiousness—or this trouble- and fun-seeking! Well, at least not the fun-seeking, anyway.”  
  
“Is that your candid way of saying that I'm a trouble-seeker? But not a fun one?” Thorin had grinned wryly. “That I at least need to have fun more often?”  
  
Bilbo had snorted this time. “Or  _at all_ , would be a lovely start!”  
  
And Thorin had laughed. Something he'd always been the second to admit was an activity he'd never engaged in often—or even seen the point of—the first having always been Frerin. Frerin, who'd for-ever be Kili's age in Thorin's heart, for-ever the little brother who'd toddled after, then tagged along after, then—occasionally— _led Thorin_  into misadventure.  
  
Frerin, the one who got the lion's share of the sense of humor that'd all but skipped Thrain's and Thorin's generations. (But not, it is to be noted, Thror's. Frerin and their grandfather had had more in common, including a raucous sense of humor that had often baffled their relatives, than Thorin had had with Thror. In fact, Thorin was, temperamentally, an exact copy of his father, grim and serious. And Dis, as studious as any historian, herself, had more of a sense of irony than of humor. And always she'd been reserved and quiet, but fearless and fair, as the mother only Thorin, of the three siblings, remembered clearly.)  
  
So Thorin had spoken of this to Bilbo without hesitation—not in so many words, but then Bilbo, like Lord Elrond, was both perceptive and attentive, and could no doubt also hear the things Thorin didn't say.  
  
And so the autumn passed into winter, with Thorin and Bilbo walking and speaking of time and times past. When the road became unwalkable, they confined their walks to the battlement, when they desired fresh air, but for the most part kept to Erebor's many, many halls, which could rival the evening sky, but not—Thorin would often think with the utter certainty of the besotted—Bilbo's shining eyes.  
  


*

  
  
“How have you been faring, since last we spoke, son of Thrain?”  
  
Thorin smiles and gestures for Lord Elrond to proceed him into the icy air of the windswept battlements. Most of the snow is, of course, removed, but what little that remains is blown around and into drifts that no doubt makes standing the watch a sheer joy for the guard.  
  
Thorin snorts.  _And it'll certainly make_ this _walk a joy for_ us, Thorin thinks wryly as he joins the elven lord in the cold, which bites despite the warmth of tunic and hooded cloak—and the warmth of a simple kiss on the cheek from Master Baggins, the first such kiss in what feels like aeons, and more than enough to send an excited thrill through Thorin's body that—even now, after a quick, solitary wank before this fateful walk—time had done little to abate.  
  
“I've been faring quite well,” Thorin says laconically, and without really thinking. He can feel Lord Elrond's ironic gaze on him almost instantly and adds, with a sigh: “As well as can be expected, anyway.”  
  
“Hmm. And how are you  _sleeping_ , of late?”  
  
“Rather poorly,” Thorin admits, then with another addendum. “At first, anyway. Recently I've begun to feel more rested and clearer during my days. More like I felt after taking The Dreamless Sleep.”  
  
“That is good,” Lord Elrond says, sounding pleased, and even smiling when Thorin glances up at him. “I had worried that you might not adjust well to sleeping without the potion. But time has put my fears to rest, it would seem. You are compensating for its lack.”  
  
“It would seem,” Thorin agrees placidly, and they walk in silence for some minutes before he brings to bear the usual bluntness of his people and kin . . . though with a modicum of tact. “I must confess to being curious as to why you requested this time with me. We haven't spoken alone in many weeks.”  
  
“That is why, King Thorin, I thought it best that we do so. In the interests of catching up, so to speak.” Lord Elrond sighs. “I wanted to see for myself that you're doing as well as you seem to during our dinners.”  
  
“I'm no master of subterfuge, Lord Elrond. What you see is what you get, with Thorin Oakenshield.”  
  
“Yes . . . so I'm realizing.” Said with no small measure of amusement, and Thorin laughs, thinking Bilbo would indeed be proud of him for finding something—especially something said by an  _elven lord_ —funny enough to laugh at.  
  
And Frerin . . . well, if he weren't already dead, he might have died of  _shock_. Even if only because he'd been the only one who ever  _could_  make Thorin laugh, on the rare occasions that he had.  
  
“You find something amusing, son of Thrain?” Lord Elrond asks without offense, but with great curiosity. Thorin snorts again, though it's partially a laugh, too.  
  
“I was reminded of my brother, Frerin,” he also admits. Then admits something else that's rather startling in how startling it is  _not_. “I imagine you and he would've got along rather famously.”  
  
“Think you so?” Lord Elrond seems surprised and pleased, as if Thorin has just paid him a high compliment. Thorin glances up at him, eyebrows raised.  
  
“Like a house on fire. He loved to laugh and I think he'd have found you quite amusing.”  
  
“Well. I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”  
  
“It was meant that way.” Thorin shrugs when Lord Elrond turns that surprised and pleased look upon him once more. “Frerin was forever laughing. Most especially at me. Apparently I was hilarious—though not on purpose, according to  _him_.”  
  
Lord Elrond chuckles wryly. “Ah . . . my brother, Elros, more than once said the same of me.”  
  
“You have a brother?”  
  
“Had, and yes. He was my twin. Long has he been parted from me by the choice of mortality. I cannot now remember the sound of his laughter, though I remember it always made my heart light and merry. Even when it was sometimes at my expense.” Lord Elrond sighs again, quite wistfully.  
  
Thorin frowns. For a moment, all he can think of is living for hundreds of years—maybe even _thousands_  of years beyond the point where he can remember the sound of Frerin's merry, guffawing laughter. As it is, he finds it difficult to remember Frerin's  _face exactly_ , only that Fili bears a rather uncanny resemblance to him, from the blond hair and almost lean build, to the heroically handsome features. . . .  
  
And certainly the sense of humor, which both he and Kili have somehow inherited, despite the dour and dire times in which they'd been raised.  
  
As Frerin had been, Thorin's nephews are lights in dark places. Merry hearts that are a blessing to all who are lucky enough to be touched by them.  
  
“It was the same with my brother. He was much like Fili and Kili, whom you've met. Brave and merry and of good, stout heart.” Thorin pauses. “Even now, I still miss him fiercely. I suppose I always will.”  
  
“Yes,” Lord Elrond says, soberly. “The loss of a sibling is a pain that is blunted with time, but never quite goes away. Though, with enough time, when one recalls that lost sibling, mostly one remembers happy times shared.”  
  
Thorin nods. “We didn't have long, Frerin and I, but the time we had—the early times—were . . . good. He was a wonderful person—he  _shone_ —and the world— _my_  world is a poorer place for his loss. But yes, when I think of him lately, instead of remembering how he died, I remember more . . . how he lived.”  
  
Smiling, Lord Elrond inclines his head. “I think he would be pleased to hear you say so, King Thorin.”  
  
“I think he'd be pleased about many things,” Thorin murmurs, thinking of the things that would have made his brother proudest and happiest: the rescuing of their homeland; a safe and secure Erebor, New Dale, and Laketown; Thorin on the throne (for Frerin had always claimed that Thorin—though 'singularly humorless'—would make a 'cracking-good' king, someday). “I only wish he could have lived to see Erebor reclaimed. To see  _her shine_  again.”  
  
“He watches fom the celestial halls of your forebears, and smiles upon your efforts. Upon this you may rely, son of Thrain,” Lord Elrond says with a certainty that does Thorin's heart—which will always ache, in a way, no matter how small, because of Frerin's loss—more good regarding his brother's death than anything ever has.  
  
The thought that Frerin has gone on—that they  _all_  will, in some fashion or other—is . . . comforting, and lightens his heart immeasurably.  
  
He and Lord Elrond turn about the battlements once more, in a silence that's quite companionable, each thinking their own thoughts.  
  
“How goes the new five days on/two days off system of governance Master Baggins was so instrumental in implementing?” Lord Elrond breaks the silence to ask.  
  
Thorin chuckles. “It, too, goes well. I had not realized how . . . run-down I was becoming, holding Court every day. How Thror managed that, I'll never know. Well,” Thorin pauses with a fond smile for the grandfather he'd loved more dearly than he'd loved even his father. “ _He_  only held Court in the mornings, that's how. I've been practically burning the candle at both ends. But with good reason. So much in my kingdom needs addressing. And  _righting_.”  
  
“Yes, but such righting will  _never_  happen if you work yourself into an early grave,” Lord Elrond reminds him, but gently. “And even defenders of the realm deserve to have personal lives apart from their public service.”  
  
“This is true,” Thorin says, though somewhat doubtful about the  _deserve_  part. But he certainly _wants_  a personal life. Wants the one that could have been, had Azog not. . . .  
  
What Thorin  _wants_ , is nothing more than to be part of the life that  _Bilbo Baggins_  deserves, which is a life of safety and security, with love lavished upon him. A life in which whatsoever his hobbit's heart desires is always within reach. And so much the better for  _Thorin_  if he, himself, is one of those desires, for ever will he be within Bilbo's reach.  
  
Though—and Thorin has had ample evidence of this—it's not a matter of  _if_  Bilbo desires him, at this point. Bilbo Baggins both loves Thorin and  _wants_  him. Nothing has made both that love and the want it fosters more evident than the hobbit's amazingly circumspect behavior and restraint through the end of autumn and the first several weeks of winter.  
  
“At any rate, my Court has adjusted quickly and well to the change. And  _I'm_  dfinitely not complaining.” Thorin quirks an eyebrow up at Lord Elrond, who's watching him curiously once more. “I'm still getting quite a bit done, two days off, besides. And I'm rested enough to be refreshed when I resume my duties. I believe I'm . . . making better decisions, too, as a result.”  
  
“Spectacular.” Lord Elrond nods again, smiling his benevolent, far-seeing smile. “This is precisely what I have been hoping to see happen. Everything is coming together as it should.”  
  
Thorin inclines his head graciously once more, though he finds himself wanting to guffaw the way Frerin almost certainly would have at such a statement and such a smile. “I am . . . pleased that you are pleased, Lord Elrond.”  
  
And from there, their talk turns to other matters—mostly to do with the nature of Thorin's sleep of late, and in-depth—including how he spends his days off. And though Lord Elrond must already know, speaking as he does one-on-one, almost daily, with Master Baggins, how Thorin happily spends his every free moment, Thorin not only answers the elven lord's questions, but answers at length. And Lord Elrond does not stop smiling that pleased, far-seeing smile for the rest of their walk, despite the cold, and the wind-tossed snow that gets thrown in their faces.  
  


*

  
  
The next day, Thorin throws Bilbo a surprise picnic lunch.  
  
It's held in Thorin's quarters, in deference to the blizzard that's currently whiting out their part of the world. But neither Thorin nor Bilbo mind, for the fire at Thorin's hearth is putting out enough heat that—at their distance of a few feet away, not quite on the hearth-stones—it feels like the heart of summer.  
  
In fact, the whole main chamber feels that way, a sentiment Bilbo expresses approvingly upon entering Thorin's chambers for their lunch. Then he's falling silent when he sees the blanket spread on the floor before the hearth, with a huge lunch seeming to cover every available inch of it.  
  
Bilbo turns to Thorin, gobsmacked, and Thorin bows, smiling.  
  
“I know the seasons for picnicing have passed, Master Baggins, and will not be upon us again for some time, but I could not wait till spring to share a picnic with you,” he says, taking Bilbo's hand for a brief kiss, then leading the hobbit into the room proper, and to the blanket.  
  
“But—why—?” Bilbo stammers, seeming puzzled, but very pleased. “How did you  _know_?”  
  
Thorin, who feels a bit as if he's cheated—most of Bilbo's favorite stories of his childhood have involved picnicing with family and friends near the Party Tree, and these picnics are always spoken of with a sweet sort of melancholy that's done more to inform Thorin's idea of his hobbit's likes than even time in the fellowship had—merely smiles and contrives to look inscrutable.  
  
“I have my ways,” he says smugly, but can't manage to keep the grin that wants to shine out of him off his face for long. “Sit, my love, and let us enjoy this repast before the ants get to it.”  
  
“Of course.” Bilbo laughs, and sits, blushing when Thorin sits close by him, and begins preparing a plate for him. All while he's doing so, Thorin can feel Bilbo's wondering eyes on him, as tangible as the heat of the fire. When Bilbo takes the plate Thorin hands him, their fingers brush and they both jump at the static shock they receive, then laugh again.  
  
After staring into each other's eyes for long moments, Thorin clears his throat and goes on to prepare his own plate—with Aule only knows what, at first . . . he finds that he cannot focus with Master Baggins' candid gaze on him. But sooner, rather than later, he's taking a bite out of a porkchop, Bilbo taking that as his cue to eat does so sedately, still sneaking glances at Thorin, who does the same, though more covertly.  
  
And so they sit before the fire and have their picnic, doing more smiling and sneaking glances at each other, than speaking, or even eating—though Thorin clears his own plate thrice and Bilbo clears his plate once and then part of a second time . . . further sign of his slowly, but surely improving appettite.  
  
And all throughout this picnic, Thorin's right hand and Bilbo's left mostly remain next to each other, fingers brushing occasionally.  
  
Then, their stomachs full, they turn at last to the hot spiced cider Cook'd had put by from New Dale. Thorin drinks sparingly, even though it is very good. For it is also quite  _strong_ , and though Thorin has the typical high tolerance for spirits of any dwarf (and especially of  _Durin's_  line), Bilbo does  _not_. The last thing he wants is for the hobbit to try, inadvertantly, to keep up with him, and wind up snoring.  
  
As it is, Bilbo  _does_  wind up getting quite a bit tipsy and silly, their rudiments of conversation turning quickly to funny stories and ridiculous jokes. And perhaps it's the relatively small amount of cider he's had making itself felt, but Thorin finds himself laughing more during their “picnic” than he has since well before Frerin's death. For Master Baggins is quite amusing—both intentionally and unintentionally . . . and adorable, as well—and a natural storyteller once his hesitance has been overcome.  
  
After a while, Thorin simply lets it all wash over him—the warmth, the companionship, Bilbo's beloved voice (which is only slightly slurred) and the silliness of the stories being told—until Bilbo suddenly falls silent in the midst of some tale or another involving the shenanigans of two Shirefolk (a Brandybuck and a Took . . . apparently  _the most_  incorrigible combination of Shirefolk) and simply gazes at Thorin with that gobsmacked look on his face once more.  
  
“What?” Thorin asks, not particularly concerned, but certainly curious. “What's the matter?”  
  
Bilbo blinks several times, then smiles a tipsy smile. “Nothing, it's just that . . . when you look at me like that, I want nothing more than to kiss you silly,” he confesses with a soft sigh, his face flushed from more than the fire and the cider. Thorin's own smile widens.  
  
“And when you forget yourself—forget to be respectable and oh, so serious for a hobbit, you, my _dear Master Baggins_  . . . you  _sparkle_.” Thorin leans closer to Bilbo, who is also leaning closer to him. “You simply  _glow_.”  
  
“Th-that's just the fire, Thorin,” Bilbo murmurs, his eyes flicking down to Thorin's lips then back up to his eyes. “Just the light of the fire.”  
  
“No, that's just  _you_. The light that shines out of  _you_ ,” Thorin whispers, his hand covering Bilbo's on the blanket. Then his eyes are closing even as  _he_  closes the remaining inches between their mouths—seals their lips in a kiss that's as chaste and gentle as if it were their first.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Bilbo breathes when Thorin sits back a little to see the result of this kiss. But Bilbo's eyes are still closed, his lips now slightly parted from his soft exhalation. “Oh,  _Thorin_ , that was _lovely_.”  
  
“ _You_  are lovely, Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin reaaches up to brush his index finger along Bilbo's cheek. “So lovely. . . .”  
  
Bilbo's eyes open and gaze happily into Thorin's. For minutes, Thorin can do nothing but gaze back. And when Bilbo at last speaks, it causes him to start. “And you, my lord, are . . . the most beautiful person I've ever known. Simply to be near you is to have my reason overthrown.”  
  
“You took the very words from my mouth, my love,” Thorin says, laughing a little, and at last looking away. Down at their hands, the fingers of which are linked tight together.  
  
He wants, more than anything, to kiss Bilbo again. To stand up with the hobbit in his arms and carry him into the bedchamber that would become  _theirs_  once more. He wants to lay his hobbit down and ravish his body—cover it in kisses and lovemarks, taste every inch of flesh he can touch with his tongue. He wants to be  _reminded_  of the sound of his name on Bilbo's lips as he comes, whether with a soft cry, or a shout. Thorin  _wants_. . . .  
  
Oh, how he  _wants_. . . .  
  
But he fears to  _try_  . . . to try and  _fail_ , and disappoint Bilbo again. For though he's hard and growing harder with each passing second, he's still fairly certain that he cannot make love to Bilbo. Not now. Not  _yet_.  
  
He is not yet . . .  _ready_.  
  
 _But when? _When_  will I _be ready? he demands of himself, torn, frustrated, and aching with the long-repressed need to  _be with_  his love.  _When will I be able to let myself have him? What am I_ waiting _for? How much healing must I do?_  
  
Thorin receives no answer. Not that he'd been expecting one. He's been asking himself those questions for seven weeks, and in those weeks, he's never had one.  
  
“It's alright, Thorin,” Bilbo says tenderly, when Thorin sighs in consternation. He even leans in to kiss the tip of Thorin's nose when Thorin looks up, meaning to apologize. But Bilbo's smile, sweet and still as happy as it'd been just minutes ago, stays him.  
  
“You are not . . . disappointed in me?” Thorin asks, dreading the answer, despite knowing what Master Baggins will—likely—say.  
  
Bilbo blinks again and laughs. “Oh, Thorin! Of  _course_  not! I  _love_  you. You never have and never could disappoint me!”  
  
“If I could, I would lay you down and make love to you right now,” Thorin avers, caressing Bilbo's cheek again. “I would give you all that you want—all that we  _both_  want—and then some.”  
  
“I know, my love,” Bilbo murmurs with an understanding that floors Thorin. That humbles and calms him. “But as  _you've_  said, I'd wait for-ever for you, if need be. And in the meantime, just this is enough. Just being with you like this refreshes my spirit and helps me heal. I can only hope that being with me serves you in the same capacity.”  
  
Gazing into Bilbo's eyes—indeed, there is no disappointment to be seen, no anger, no sadness, just a relaxed happiness and a little bemusement that's no doubt caused by the cider—Thorin smiles, leaning their foreheads together.  
  
“It does, Master Baggins. More than you'll ever know. I love you,” he adds with another sigh. “So very much.  
  
“Not as much as I love  _you_. Couldn't possibly.” Bilbo giggles a little. Then says, rather clearly, if bemusedly: “Oh,  _my_ —”  
  
And with a hiccough, he sags against Thorin, quite unconscious.  
  
After a few startled moments, Thorin, smiling to himself, scoops the hobbit into his arms and stands up. For the first time in seven weeks he makes his way to what will—someday . . .  _soon_ —be their bedchamber, once again, his hobbit in his arms.  
  
After he's tucked Bilbo in, he builds up the fire in the bedchamber and, with a last glance at the indeed snoring hobbit, goes to pack up their picnic.  
  
Once a servant has come to take the remains of their food away, Thorin means to go to his office and get a little work done for a few hours until Bilbo awakens . . . but instead his wayward feet carry him back to his bedchamber.  
  
Back to his  _bed_.  
  
He kicks off his boots, sits on the edge of the bed furthest from the fire, and watches Bilbo sleep for long, restful minutes as he brushes the unruly hair back from Bilbo's clear brow.  
  
“I love you,” he murmurs, and more than once. “You are my heart.”  
  
The next chiming of the clock finds a still-clothed Thorin curled up in bed, atop the blanket and around his hobbit, snoring himself and—for a precious few hours, anyway—lost to the world.


	16. Dawn of a New Age 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein it gets a little "Ethan Frome" up in this bitch. And other stuff happens, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No harm, no foul, no profit.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Thorin wakes when the clock chimes three in the afternoon.  
  
Bilbo is asleep in his arms, but not soundly. Not  _well_. Not if the soft, unhappy moans and shivering is any indication.  
  
For a few moments, Thorin is disoriented—taken back in time seven weeks, to autumn, when he and Bilbo had, for over two months, shared this very bed. Back to a time when Bilbo had still had his awful night terrors—demons of rapid, panting breath; tossing and turning; and eventually screams that lasted sometimes till well after Bilbo had awoken. . . .  
  
In the few moments during which Thorin now blearily debates whether or not to try and wake Bilbo—sometimes, the afermath seems worse when Thorin doesn't let whatever Bilbo's dreaming play out—from his night terror, Bilbo starts to mutter between moanings, and that brings Thorin completely back to the present. For Bilbo had  _never_  muttered during the night terrors, only occasionally moaned, then screamed.  
  
Thus, Thorin remembers the indoor picnic they'd had, during which Bilbo had gotten quite tipsy— _drunk_  might be a less tactful, but more accurate way to put it—and eventually passed out. But not before he and Thorin had shared a chaste yet delightful kiss . . . the merest remembrance of which makes Thorin's lips tingle and his blood rush and—  
  
“No—no, please,  _don't_ —” Bilbo mumbles, beginning to toss in earnest within the confines of Thorin's arms. He's pale and there are tears wetting his lashes and cheeks, his entire body one long, tense shudder of revulsion. “ _Help me_ , please—oh, Thorin  _help_ —”  
  
And that decides Thorin. He cannot sit by yet again while Bilbo suffers . . . not when he can stop it this time.  
  
“I'm here, Bilbo. Wake up,” Thorin murmurs gently, so softly he can barely hear himself over Bilbo's moaning and muttering. His heart breaks and breaks as he carefully, but ruthlessly tamps down his own memories of that night—of Bilbo screaming for aide, and of himself being unable to so much as crawl in the hobbit's direcion. ”I'm here, now, and you're safe. I love you—”  
  
“ _NO!_ ” Bilbo shouts, thrashing suddenly in Thorin's arms, so wildly and so frantically, Thorin can barely hold on to him. Even asleep, Bilbo is quick and slippery, like a landed fish desperate to escape back to his pool . . . but Thorin holds on and holds on, murmuring his love the whole time. But Bilbo does not hear, only continues to moan out his distress: “Please, don't— _please_!”  
  
“ _Bilbo Baggins_!” Thorin says loudly, forcefully shaking his hobbit once, hard, and Bilbo's eyes fly open, a small, trembling cry on his lips. His eyes roll frantically taking in the room, yet not even seeming to see it, or Thorin, who continues to hold Bilbo close. Closer, still, kissing the hobbit's forehead tenderly as Bilbo whimpers and struggles weakly in his arms.  
  
“It is only me . . . it is only  _Thorin_  . . . you remember me, do you not, my love? Thorin?”  
  
It takes a minute, but Bilbo's struggles slow, then stop, his hot, damp face turning up from where Thorin has it pressed against his neck, toward Thorin's own face.  
  
“Th-Thorin?” When Bilbo tries to sit back a little, Thorin lets him. Gazes down into wet, frightened, devastated eyes that are, nonetheless, clear and aware. “What—where are we? Are we—” Bilbo looks around again, squinting as he takes in the room again. Then his eyes land lastly on Thorin and his body, heretofore tense in Thorin's embrace, relaxes. “We're  _home_.”  
  
“Yes, my love. We are home.” Thorin pulls Bilbo close again, kissing his hair then resting his chin atop Bilbo's head. “Never again will you be forced to trek through the wildnerness, marching wearily across the world, pursued and chased by evil. Never again will I fail to protect you. This I _swear_.”  
  
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, shivering still. “You're protecting me admirably, it's just that . . . the nightmares—the  _memories_  won't leave me alone. Every time I close my eyes, Azog is waiting for me. Waiting to  _hurt me_  again, and. . . .”  
  
Bilbo leaves off, sniffling, and Thorin holds him tighter, his own face set in grim, unhappy lines. “I . . . had not realized the memories still plague you so intensely while you sleep.”  
  
For long minutes, Bilbo does not answer, merely shivers in Thorin's arms and tries obviously to calm his breathing. Calm  _himself_.  
  
“They aren't always this  _intense_ ,” he whispers, and Thorin strokes his back soothingly, knowing a falsehood from his hobbit when he hears it.  
  
“Are they not?  _Truly_?”  
  
No answer again, for long minutes. Then:  
  
“Usually . . . they're much  _worse_ ,” Bilbo admits with a stuttered exhalation, sounding frustrated and ashamed. “Usually there's no one to wake me up before he . . . starts hurting me.” He shudders again. “But I suppose I should be glad of one thing: they're still not as awful as the night terrors. I don't wake up screaming myself hoarse and not knowing where I am, who I am, or even who  _you_  are for minutes, or hours, or even days.”  
  
Thorin, remembering the spell of disorientation that'd occurred after one particularly bad night terror, a few days before Lord Elrond's arrival, shudders, himself. Bilbo hadn't reliably or consistently recognized either his surroundings or sometimes even Thorin for days. Had even, on occasion, not remembered who he, himself, was. And his memory of past events had been full of holes and confused to the point of nonexistence.  
  
Thorin had never been more frightened in his life, than he had been in those minutes and hours and days. Never had he cursed himself more for his own actions.  
  
Now, in hindsight, knowing that his actions aren't to blame—at least not  _totally_ —he still feels at fault. For would Bilbo still have these nightmares if Azog's head were on a pike, on the battlements, for all to see the price of crossing Thorin Oakenshield, and those whom he holds dear?  
  
For  _Bilbo_  to see that all threats are, with Azog's death, dead and done?  
  
“My love, I am so sorry,” Thorin murmurs, feeling the weight of his failures—all of them—and Bilbo sighs.  
  
“It's not your fault, Thorin.  _I'm_  the one who can't overcome his fears—his surely  _ridiculous_  fears—and thus cannot get even one full night's sleep without dreaming that Azog the Defiler has him once more. Not even when I sleep beside you apparently, for if Azog were right outside the doors to this room, Arlen and Muir are both accomplished and brave. As are you. I know this above all else: I am safe. I  _know_  it. Yet my heart does not  _believe_  it. It won't understand that if Azog made it past all the guards of this mountain, he'd never make it past you and Goblin-Cleaver, my king.”  
  
 _But he did, once, to my everlasting regret,_  Thorin thinks ruefully, but does not say as he gazes beyond Bilbo and into the fire. For never would he put the weight of his own failures on  _his hobbit's_  strong, but dismayingly slim shoulders. “And he'd never make it even that far. Azog the Defiler is hiding in a hole somewhere, trying to avoid the bounty on his head—no doubt unable even to sleep, himself, among his compatriots . . . for fear they'll try to claim that bounty.”  
  
“I hear the sense in what you say, my lord—doubt that he even remembers me to wish to harm _me, specifically_ —and yet. . . .” Bilbo sighs again, once more pressing his warm, still-wet face against Thorin's neck for a little while then turning his head and laying it on Thorin's shoulder. “Please . . . let us not talk about Azog the Defiler, anymore. I've had quite enough of him for one day. For one  _lifetime_.”  
  
“As you wish, my love.” Thorin kisses Bilbo's hair again and holds hime tighter. “Only . . . does Lord Elrond know your nightmares are this bad and so frequently?”  
  
Bilbo does not answer at all, this time, and after a few minutes, Thorin takes that as a  _no_.  
  
“You  _must_  tell him, Bilbo.”  
  
“What's the point? He will not give me more Dreamless Sleep for fear that I'll become addicted to it. Nor will he give me any other sedative, saying only that I must learn to sleep on my own once more.” Bilbo snorts. “Such a fine job I've been doing of that, too!”  
  
Now Thorin is the one to sigh. “You must tell him, my love,” he repeats firmly. “Tell Lord Elrond . . . or I will.”  
  
“Thorin—”  
  
“Take me at my word, Bilbo Baggins. For I will not have you stalled on your road of healing by your own silence.” Thorin grasps Bilbo's shoulders and leans back to look Bilbo in the eyes. That evening-blue swims in a sea of irritated, cried-out red and such a sight hurts Thorin's spirit more than he could ever express. He reaches up to brush his fingers down Bilbo's wet cheek. “Tell him. Tonight over dinner. Or tomorrow, during your walk with him, if you feel more comfortable discussing such matters in private.”  
  
Bilbo glances away from Thorin for a while—this time markedly less briefly. Finally, he bites his lip and nods. “I . . . will speak with him on the morrow. When we walk.” Those eyes suddenly meet Thorin's again. “Not because I wish to keep secrets from you, but because I would not remind you of what you witnessed that night. I would do  _anything_  in my power to see  _you_  forget that Azog ever touched me.”  
  
Thorin, who will remember that night and what he saw till the day he dies, can think of nothing to say to that, at first. So he simply cups Bilbo's face in his hand and brushes his thumb across Bilbo's lips.  
  
“I will  _never_  forget your brave defense of me, and the sacifice you made to save my life when I so rashly tried to throw it away on vengeance,” he says finally, grimly. “I will never forget the lesson that night taught me—and more thoroughly than anything ever has—that my actions, all of them, have consequences. That when I act, the repercussions do not fall on me, alone, but on those whom I love.  _That_  is something Thorin Oakenshield forgot once, to his great and eternal regret, but something the King Under the Mountain  _never_  will. Because of you. I am a better king than I otherwise would have been because of  _you_.”  
  
Bilbo snorts again, sardonic and cynical. “What? Because I was raped?”  
  
“Because you  _saved me_  from my own stupidity at the cost of something precious—at the near cost of your  _life_.” Thorin closes his eyes for several moments. Rallies and marshals his mind and heart to speak the words that he needs to say, and more importantly, Bilbo needs to  _hear_. “And to lose something so precious  _to me_  as you would have  _broken me_  beyond even Lord Elrond's talents and knowledge, Master Baggins. I came so close to the brink of madness and dissolution that night that I shudder to think upon it, even so long hence. . . .”  
  
“Then  _don't_ , my lord,” Bilbo begs quietly, leaning into Thorin's touch and covering the hand on his cheek with his own. “Let us speak of other things. Let us go for a walk on the battlements. The chill air and snow will refresh us and chase these dark thoughts from our minds for a while.”  
  
Thorin gazes into Bilbo's eyes for a minute, then nods, trying to smile. It must pass muster, at least somewhat, for Bilbo smiles back, a slightly watery version of his wide, wonderful smile. And Thorin's own smile widens, becomes genuine, and he leans in to press his lips to Bilbo's briefly.  
  
And after a few moments—despite the stirring in his body and the desire to taste Bilbo's sweetness after so many weeks without—Thorin sits back, clearing his throat and letting go of Bilbo. He can feel the hobbit staring after him with yearning and regret even as he stands up, pulls on his boots, stretches, rounds the bed, and strides to the huge guarderobe for one of his cloaks. When he has it—the one he  _always chooses_ , the one gifted to him by Bilbo this past autumn, hooded and lined with fur—he stands there staring at the soft, sable-colored leather and fur for a moment, smiling.  
  
“Go and fetch your cloak, my love,” he says in a voice tight with self-control, clutching at the cloak in his hands to the point that were it a person, it'd be dead of throttling. “And bring gloves, as well. I'll meet you in front of your chambers shortly.”  
  
Bilbo gets out of bed slowly, with another sigh.  
  
“Yes, my king,” he murmurs, only reluctantly exiting Thorin's bedchamber, the pad of his feet only barely audible over the crackling of the fire and the knocking of Thorin's racing heart.  
  
When the door to the main chamber has shut, Thorin drops his cloak with a sigh and goes back to his bed, sitting in the spot in which Bilbo had slept. The pillow, when he lays down, still carries Bilbo's scent, and Thorin breathes in deeply. . . .  
  
Then he rolls onto his back, almost angrily yanking up his tunic and down his breeches. He takes himself in hand rather ungently, and brings himself off with a few quick, rough strokes, gasping, and holding in his lungs Bilbo's scent as he comes  _hard_  . . . but without much in the way of satisfaction.  
  


*

  
  
“Tell me, my king . . . do dwarves ever go sledding and build people out of snow?”  
  
Thorin, surprised at this question—the first thing either of them have said since Thorin had arrived at Bilbo's chambers to find the hobbit waiting for him, somewhat downcast—can only blink at first.  
  
“Of course we do—dwarf children, mostly. Adult dwarves tend to find the snow less . . . whimsical.” Thorin snorts, and Bilbo grins up at him, gloved hands clutching Thorin's arm tighter for a few moments as they stroll along the battlements, past the guards and drifts of wind-driven snow. “I imagine it's the same for all the races that live in climes such as these.”  
  
Bilbo laughs. “You imagine just a little bit wrong, my lord. For in the winter, when the snow's piled up so high, there's nothing else to do with it  _but_  try and have fun, you'll see as many adult _hobbits_ —if not more—on sleds as children. And everyone loves building snow-hobbits and dressing them in grandfather's old hats and scarves. Not to mention filching carrots and coal to complete the face, of course.”  
  
“Of course.” Thorin finds himself grinning back at Bilbo, entranced by the rosiness of cheeks and wideness of smile. By the brightness of the most lovely eyes he'll ever see. “And I suppose you've only brought this up as yet another fond memory of childhood in the Shire. . . ?”  
  
“But of course,” Bilbo says disingenuously, but that smile somehow grows even wider, as do those suspiciously innocent eyes. “And,  _of course_ , if someone in Erebor should have a sled for their king to borrow for an afternoon . . . and perhaps an old hat and some coal. . . .” he glances out over the battlements at the foothills below, which shoulder right up to the road leading into the mountain, then back at Thorin. He's practically glowing. “C'mon, Thorin, it'll be  _fun_! You know, that thing you almost never have?”  
  
“Oh, no,” Thorin says, laughing uncomfortably, shaking his head. “I will do anything you desire, my love, including build snow-hobbits. But I draw the line at sledding. Anything but  _that_.”  
  
“Please, Thorin? We wouldn't have to go out for very long—just long enough to go up and down a hill a few times!” Bilbo bobs up and down like an excited child and Thorin sighs.  
  
“Bilbo . . . it's a royal prerogative to  _not_  go sledding, even when invited by the most beautiful and wonderful—and might I add shiver-prone—hobbit in the world,” he says, and Bilbo's the one to snort, now.  
  
“Sweet-talk won't get you out of it, King Thorin. We're going sledding, and that's the end of it,” Bilbo says sternly, bending a very sharp look on Thorin. One which Thorin is not in the least intimidated by. Indeed, Bilbo cannot even hold such a face for longer than the space of a few seconds. It turns into a small, besotted smile and Bilbo moves closer to Thorin, leaning on his arm. “Please? You don't have to slide down the hill, if you don't wish to, but you can walk me up. And carry the sled.”  
  
Thorin rolls his eyes, but cannot help the smile that curves his mouth once more. “Gladly would I be your beast of burden, Master Baggins. But not for this. I apologize.”  
  
“I'm going to start calling you King Spoil-Sport.” Bilbo pouts, but his gaze turns curious. “Is there some reason you're obviously contemplating outlawing sledding in the kingdom of Erebor, or is this dour refusal just you being stubbornly arbitrary?”  
  
“A king is never arbitrary.” Off Bilbo's disbelieving look, Thorin chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Well,  _rarely_  arbitrary, anyway. And yes, there  _is_  a story behind my . . . wariness of sledding. A cautionary tale that I was forced to take to heart at a very young age, and at a high cost.”  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows quirk up in unhidden expectation and Thorin sighs. Covers one of the gloved hands on his arm with his own gloved hand.  
  
“When Frerin and I were young—still just children, really . . . I had not yet even grown a beard, and was still too young for ale— _Dis_  was but a babe in arms, and our mother recently dead. . . .” Thorin frowns a little, stepping over  _that_  particular memory. Now isn't the time for it, with Master Baggins so chipper, despite the nightmare that'd driven him from sleep. “At any rate, I was young. Still young enough to think sledding a fine way to spend an afternoon not taken up with learning governance or doing revision work, or being taught the histories of our people.  
  
“I and a few friends decided to take our sleds out to those very hills one winter day, when the snow was high and not quite iced-over. A perfect day for such sport, it seemed. Perfect, until my little brother came running after us, trailing his scarf and cloak, and begging to go out with us.”  
  
Thorin's frown turns into a smile as he remembers Frerin, tiny and determined, scowling up at his brother and the other five boys Thorin had befriended—dead, now, those boys, each and every one, at Khazad-Dum, or during other misadventures—and threatening to just follow them anyway.  
  
“Might as well let him tag along, Thor. Must be dead-boring being stuck with a nanny and a baby all bloody day,” one of those boys, Gholin, had said peacably, meeting Thorin's eyes with merry, ordinary-brown ones. He'd placed a hand briefly on Thorin's shoulder, before Thorin could march Frerin, by the arm, back to the nursery, where the nanny was taking care of Dis, and should've also had an eye on Frerin.  
  
And Thorin, who'd had something of a . . .  _fondness_  for Gholin—a fondness that was, Thorin had just been beginning to realize, returned—had dropped Frerin's arm and glowered at both boy and brother before stalking toward the Great Hall, and thence the great outdoors.  
  
“Fine. But if you want him along so much,  _you_  keep an eye on him,” he'd grunted, fighting off a fierce blush and shrugging the still-tingling shoulder Gholin had touched. Then he'd lead the five other boys, and his annoying little brother—who was chattering away at Gholin and holding his hand, swinging it as they went along. And Gholin, good-hearted soul that he'd been and ever would be, had allowed it with an indulgent smile—out to the foothills surrounding the Lonely Mountain.  
  
After carefully choosing the perfect hill for steepness of angle, deepness of snow, and sheer _height_ , they'd climbed it, and begun sledding down it one at a time.   
  
At first, Frerin had been content to watch Thorin and the other boys climb the hill then come speeding back down, whooping and screaming and laughing. Then  _he'd_  wanted a go, whining about it first to Thorin, who'd simply ignored him, as he had been doing the whole time, then at Gholin who, soft-hearted as he was (and the youngest of five brothers, to boot) had finally taken pity on the pleading prince and, hand in hand, they'd climbed the hill.  
  
For Gholin had refused to let such a small boy go down such a steep, icy hill alone.  
  
“And I don't know if the sled was simply too worn-out, the hand-me-down of four previous boys . . . and even Frerin's extra weight was too much for it, or if the sled struck a stone or a piece of ice, but . . . one moment, Gholin and Frerin were flying down that hill, faces lit up with excitement. The next moment, their bodies were airborne and the sled was so many pieces of wood, flying around them,” Thorin tells Bilbo quietly, after relating all that had happened prior to that. The hobbit's face is set in lines of horror and he's halted their walk to stare up at Thorin with shock. Thorin looks away, into the white world beyond the battlements, so like the one of times long past. . . .  
  
“They hit the ground near the bottom of the hill and kept rolling for a few yards . . . I could . . . _hear_  the crunch of broken bones when they impacted—”  
  
“Oh, Thorin—”  
  
“My brother . . . merely broke his arm—I say  _merely_  because even though the break was bad, and months in healing (and it was a miracle that it healed clean) it wasn't fatal. Gholin's landing, however, was. He'd landed on his head, whereupon his neck was broken.”  
  
“Oh!” Bilbo exclaims again, tears springing to his eyes and one hand going up to cover his mouth. “No—oh,  _no_!”  
  
Thorin smiles mirthlessly, shrugging slightly. “Yes. He was . . . dead. Of course, if I'd been doing my duty as a brother that day—if I'd shouldered my responsibilities as I  _should_  have—”  
  
“Then Gholin would be alive, and  _you_  might be dead,” Bilbo says, uncovering his mouth to reach up and cup Thorin's cheek in his gloved hand. Thorin sighs, shaking his head doubtfully.  
  
“Perhaps. But my sled was newer, more sound. It would have held together under my weight and Frerin's—wouldn't have come apart so easily whether striking ice or a stone. It would have _held_.” Thorin sighs again and Bilbo does, too, his hand dropping away from Thorin's face.  
  
“I'm so sorry for your loss, Thorin. So very sorry,” he whispers. Thorin shakes his head again, not wanting or needing compassion after all this time. Not when Gholin's death—the first of many—could be laid so squarely at his door.  
  
“You need not waste your compassion on me, Master Baggins. It was . . . a long time ago.”  _And I do not deserve it, for I am the one directly responsible for such a senseless death._  
  
“You'll forgive me, my lord, but my compassion is  _mine_  to feel as I will, for  _whom_  I will. And anyway . . . compassion is  _never_  wasted on a heart as noble as yours, my love.” Bilbo pauses, as if uncertain whether he wants to say more. But finally he takes a deep breath and speaks. “Did you . . . were you in love with this boy, this Gholin?” he asks tentatively, and Thorin shrugs uncomfortably and starts them walking again.  
  
“I was young, Bilbo. I didn't know what love was, except that the person I'd loved  _most_  had but recently died and that I couldn't bear to be around anyone who reminded me of her . . . which Frerin did . . . he could've been my mother's twin, as I remember. Everyone remarked upon how like her he was, how fair and merry and fearless.” Thorin's unhappy smile widens a little. “All I knew of love then, Master Baggins, was that I'd nearly lost my brother due to my own inattentiveness, and had indeed lost a boy that I . . . of whom I was very fond. And who may have been fond of me, as well.”  
  
“Oh, my king,” Bilbo murmurs, leaning close to Thorin. “I'm so sorry.”  
  
Thorin, still mystified by Bilbo's compassion, can only mutter numbly: “You needn't be. It's not _your_  fault.”  
  
“Neither is it yours.” Bilbo gazes up at Thorin somberly, piercingly. When Thorin can at last return such a gaze, he opens his mouth, unknowing of what will come out. At first, nothing does, and Bilbo speaks again: “Do you hear me, Thorin Oakenshield? Gholin's death was an accident—a  _tragic_  one—and it was  _not your fault._ ”  
  
And Thorin opens his mouth yet again—not to gainsay Bilbo, for indeed, what the hobbit is saying, that Gholin's death is  _not_  Thorin's fault, had never once occurred to him in all these years—but to change the subject to something lighter and merrier. For both their sakes.  
  
But again, nothing comes out but a soft, frustrated huff.  
  
“Not. Your. Fault,” Bilbo repeats firmly. “I don't imagine anyone even thought to tell you, in all the commotion, that it wasn't—that sometimes accidents simply  _happen_ —but that's what this was. An accident. Pure and simple. And that's the last I'll speak on it, for I see that you would rather speak of other things.”  
  
“That I would,” Thorin is quick to agree, having at last found his voice. Bilbo's slight smile is fond, if still a bit concerned as Thorin starts them walking again. But it isn't long before Thorin is tying this most uncomfortable memory back to his original point. “I would not deny you that in which you find joy, Master Baggins. And yet . . . I would not  _lose you, too_ , to such a dangerous, unnecessary misadventure,” he finally says, softly and hesitantly, and Bilbo sighs again and looks up at him with bright, earnest eyes.  
  
“And you won't,” he replies, just as softly. “I'll never touch another sled again as long as I live, if it please your majesty. This,  _I swear_.”  
  
Bilbo inclines his head deeply, respecfully, and Thorin—his heart suddenly beating fast and hard, as if to burst from the confines of his chest—stops them once more to pull the hobbit into his arms, leaning their foreheads together and sharing breath with Bilbo for long, speechless moments.  
  
“And would you give up  _every_  activity you enjoy simply because it  _could_  be dangerous, and because I ask it of you?” he asks lowly, his lips a scant space away from Bilbo's. He can all but taste the tartness of the cider they'd had with lunch, and that customary sweetness that is all _Bilbo_.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” Bilbo says simply, his eyes Thorin's entire world, so close are they, so brilliantly do they shine, like a starlit sky.  
  
“It is  _you_  who is lord, my love. Lord of my heart,” Thorin whispers, already closing the hair's breadth-distance between their mouths eagerly, his lips parted even as they touch Bilbo's.  
  
Time, if anything, has only increased the thrill of  _rightness_  that surges through Thorin at this long-missed taste of Bilbo's sweetness. Has only increased his need for it and his  _desire_  for it. Has him crushing his hobbit close and tight as he teases and explores with teeth and tongue. In his arms, Bilbo melts like a snowflake, moaning low and soft and long, sending vibrations through Thorin's teeth—through his very  _being_.  
  
Their arms wind around each other, at first holding on, then simply  _holding_  each other. Until at last the pervasive chill has them both shivering and shaking their way out of the kiss. But not out of each other's arms. Thorin, despite having come not an hour ago, rapidly grows hard against Bilbo's stomach, and has no doubts that the hobbit can feel it. For Thorin can also feel Bilbo hardening against his thigh.  
  
Silent and knowing, they stare into each other's eyes, their desire writ large and unhidden on their faces and in their gazes. . . .  
  
At last, Thorin opens his mouth to speak, again not knowing what will come out.  
  
“I . . . will commission of Master Bofur a sled for you, my love,” he blurs out breathlessly, his hands restless under Bilbo's cloak . . . one at the small of Bilbo's back and stroking, the other on Bilbo's backside and squeezing. Bilbo's left hand rests at Thorin's right shoulder, where it clutches almost desperately, and the right cards through Thorin's hair. “The most sturdy, well-built,  _safest_  sled Middle Earth has ever seen. And when it is done . . . when it is done, on my first free-day, I will take you sledding.”  
  
“Oh, Thorin!” Bilbo bounces happily, his eyes shining, his face glowing as he hugs Thorin tight. Thorin returns the embrace with equal intensity, and buries his face in hair that always smells of spring and simply inhales.  
  


*

  
  
The walk back to Bilbo's quarters is a slow one, charged and expectant though it is.  
  
Holding hands, Thorin and Bilbo steal more than a few glances at each other—and more than a few kisses, once they've left behind the more widely traveled halls between the battlements and the royal wing.  
  
Until finally, they've paused outside of Bilbo's door, embracing once more and gazing into each other's eyes for long, long moments. . . .  
  
Till at last, Bilbo laughs and glances away.  
  
“Would you c-care to come in, my lord?” he asks hopefully, but not with a certain amount of wryness as well, for already he knows Thorin's answer.  
  
“On, with, because of, and yes,  _in_  . . . I desire nothing more, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin murmurs, taking Bilbo's lips in yet another kiss, gentle and undemanding. Bilbo's response to it is equally undemanding, though obviously his self-contol is hard-won. As is Thorin's.   
  
Thorin pulls away with a sigh before either of them can lose that hard-won self-control any further.  
  
“I desire to . . . come in . . . more than I desire my next sustaining breath, Master Baggins . . . but I think it would be best for us to part until dinner,” he breathes on Bilbo's lips, bussing them once more, lightly, before stepping back out of an embrace that does not easily release him.  
  
Bilbo takes a deep breath that he lets out with a shiver, smiling limply, his eyes still shining, but with hints of regret and frustration. But before Thorin can feel even more guilty than he already does, Bilbo laughs brightly. Thorin joins him, and just like that, everything is alright.  
  
“Oh, my king, but you tempt me  _most unmercifully._  Simply by  _existing_ ,” his hobbit says when their laughter has faded to sporadic giggles from Bilbo and occasional chuckles from Thorin.  
  
“As do you, my love . . . as do you.” Shaking his head self-mockingly, Thorin backs another few steps away and bows deeply. “Until dinner?”  
  
Bilbo bows back, gracefully and low, his dancing eyes never leaving Thorin's. “I'll be there with bells on.”  
  
“Excellent.”  
  
And there they stand for some time, gazing into each other's eyes until Thorin finally clears his throat, bows again, does a crisp  _about-face_ , and marches off down the hall.  
  
He can feel Bilbo's heated, yearning gaze on him till he turns a corner—upon which he stops, leans against the wall and tries to catch his breath. It's a long time before he can, but eventually, he's staggering his almost pained way back to his own chambers, barely noticing the guards opening the doors then shutting them behind him.  
  
This time, when he wanks to the remembrance of the at-first-sweet, then decidedly wanton kisses on the battlements and in the halls, he teases himself with light touches and tells himself they're  _Bilbo's_  gentle, exploratory touches—and thus comes all the harder and faster when he can no longer keep up such teasing and imagining.  
  
Afterwards, Thorin lays there, trying to catch his breath and wondering if Bilbo is laying abed, doing the same thing while thinking of  _him_.  
  
Such thoughts, immediately after coming, are nearly painful to his over-sensitized body, but he indulges in them anyway, till the clock chimes six and he's managed to make himself come twice more while imagining Bilbo bringing  _himself_  off with those same gentle, exploratory fingers, as well as many a sigh and moan.  
  
Sighs and moans that sound quite a lot like Thorin's name. . . .  
  
 _I_  must  _heal faster,_  Thorin thinks with frustration as he sits up, his rubbery arms and legs taking their own time in supporting him when he gets to his feet to wash up and change for dinner with Lord Elrond.  _I cannot have us both waiting forever for what should have happened the night we met! I cannot keep putting us both off because of my own fears! How will I even know when I'm healed enough to have him? How do I even know I'm healing_  at all?  
  
Cleaning himself up and dressing efficiently, Thorin grimly decides to arrive at Lord Elrond's chambers a good forty minutes early, in order to ask such questions as he cannot answer for himself. And he  _will not_  let the matter go till he has firmer answers than he has heretofore received from the elven lord.  
  
Sparing a last thought for a Bilbo who may or may not be laying abed, utterly spent after pleasuring himself to thoughts of Thorin having him—even now, such imaginings give hints of life to Thorin's  _own_  spent, flaccid flesh—Thorin resolutely puts such thoughts aside for later and stalks out of his chambers, a dwarf on a mission.  
  
And he certainly hopes that he won't need such lovely, licentious thoughts for very much longer. He hopes that the reality, no doubt a thousand times more potent, will soon be his for the taking.


	17. Dawn of a New Age 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin pays three surprise visits for three different reasons, to three different people . . . all regarding the same person. And I'm certain we can all guess whom that person is. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Would I steal on my birthday? Never!  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“King Thorin,” Lord Elrond says smoothly, seeming unsurprised to see Thorin, who barges past the elven lord, into his chambers without preamble. “You're a little early for dinner.”  
  
“I know.” Thorin strides through the small antechamber to the main chamber, where a fire blazes merrily, and sits himself in a dwarf-sized (or, more likely, since Bilbo spends more time with Lord Elrond,  _hobbit-_ sized) chair that's always been before the fire, and across from an elf- or man-sized chair. “So exactly how long is it before I'm healed enough to have Master Baggins in the way we both desire?”  
  
Thorin turns his gaze from the fire, to an approaching Lord Elrond, who's smiling wryly. “You . . . certainly do not dance around your subject, King Thorin,” he notes, sitting in the other chair with a soft sigh. His own gaze stays on the fire for long moments. “And I suspect that by now you must know what my answer to such a question will be.”  
  
“To listen to our hearts? That only  _he and I_  know when the right time will be? Aye. I know what you would tell me. And it's no longer enough,” Thorin grits out around his own frustrations—though he knows it is not Lord Elrond with whom he is frustrated. “It is not enough to know that _someday_  I will be ready to make love to him. I need a definite  _timeframe_. I need more than vague reassurances and platitudes, though I sense you mean well by them.”  
  
Lord Elrond sighs again and finally glances from the fire, to Thorin. “Would it help you to know that I have Seen possible futures in which you've already made love to Master Baggins, and the damage this does to either of you is precisely  _none_?” Those dark, straight brows quirk up when Thorin's breath very obviously catches. “And would it dismay you to know that there are possible futures in which you  _never_  feel ready or worthy—for this, too, I sense, is part of your unreadiness . . . a feeling of being unworthy of your Master Baggins—to fully express your love? Futures in which you rule Erebor alone for many years . . . and Master Baggins returns to the Shire to live out the rest of his very long life alone?”  
  
Thorin shakes his head in denial. “No. That's—Bilbo would never leave me—never leave the life we've carved out here at such great pains!”  
  
“Would he not?” Lord Elrond's gaze is opaque, but far too knowing, and Thorin has to look away after a few moments. “If he thought he would be doing what was best for you, would he not march to the Mountain of Fire and throw himself off the outlook, into fiery chasm below?”  
  
Thorin shakes his head again, but he hears the truth of Lord Elrond's words. Bilbo would leave him a thousand times over, if he thought it would be better for Thorin than him staying. Though it would destroy him to do so, to leave the place that's become his home, the people that've become his family, and the . . . the  _love_  that Thorin has and would continue to lavish upon him, Bilbo would walk away with naught but the clothes on his back to spare Thorin pain and unhappiness.  
  
“But he  _must_  know that whether or not I ever make love to him, I would never see him  _leave_  me! That I would rather be  _dead_  than live without him in my life! By Durin, I'd  _marry_  him and make him my consort if he'd only say  _yes_! I'd have him rule Erebor by my side!” Thorin's hands, clenched into fists, pound the arm-rests of the chair.  
  
“Perhaps he would spare you both the pain of a lifetime spent so close, yet so far from each other.” Lord Elrond pauses as if uncertain whether to go on. “For your reticence, though not without cause, pains him more than you know. He fears that you do not touch him in part because you disdain to. Because of the torment he suffered at Azog's vile hands, which you witnessed.”  
  
“Though I will never  _forget_  what happened to him—what I  _let happen_  to him—I will  _never_  see him as anything other than pure and brave and lovely.” Thorin is the one to sigh, this time, returning his gaze to Lord Elrond. “I would not do what Azog tried, but failed to do. I would not . . .  _sully_  him. I would not take him until, as you said, I am  _worthy_. Until I have atoned for the wrongs I have done him, and  _let be done_  to him.”  
  
“And when do you suppose that will be? For therein lies the answer you seek, son of Thrain.”  
  
Thorin sighs again, hanging his head.  
  
“I do not know,” he whispers hoarsely, around a throat full of tears—tears of sadness and longing. Of frustration and despair. “How could I ever, in one mere lifetime, repay the debt I owe him, and make up for the damage I have done him—the damage  _Azog_  did to him?”  
  
“Do not take the Defiler's deeds on your shoulders, for his transgressions are not your own. It is not  _you_  who must atone for  _his_  actions.” Lord Elrond warns, and Thorin waves a dismissive hand.  
  
“Who's fault was it that Master Baggins was violated while trying to defend me? Whose stupidity and rash actions resulted in that violation?” Thorin swipes at his eyes angrily, impatiently. “And who will  _never_  be able to erase what was done, no matter how many kingdoms and how much gold he wins?” Turning his gaze—pleading, now—on Lord Elrond once more, Thorin takes a breath. “Tell me, my lord,  _who_  will make right what went so disastrously wrong? For Thorin, son of Thrain is off to a poor start.”  
  
Smiling his reassuring, compassionate smile, Lord Elrond looks to the fire again. “You are off to a better start than you realize, King Thorin. For the only person to perceive such an insurmountable debt and distance between you and Master Baggins—the only person to see you as  _unworthy_  of Master Baggins—is  _you_.”  
  
“Well, apparently that's enough to keep Master Baggins and me in this awful Purgatory. And even now, as we edge closer and closer to the same kisses and touches that overwhelmed us when we shared a bed, I know that I will not be able to follow through on the promise of them. That in the end I will only tease him as much as I am able, then leave him trembling and unfulfilled. And likely blaming himself for  _my_  failure, as ever he has. Even today, I could see it in his eyes when I left him at his door, though he hid it well. He blames himself that I saw what Azog did to him. He even said as much, earlier. And he thinks that I won't be able to make love to him until enough time has passed for me to have forgotten that night. And yet he knows that I will  _never_  forget. . . .  
  
“ _Could_  never forget.” Thorin shakes his head sadly. “It is as if Azog still violates Master Baggins simply by continuing to exist. And until  _that_  wrong has been righted . . . no, my Lord Elrond, I do not suppose I  _will_  be worthy of his loving arms.”  
  
Lord Elrond  _hmm_ s softly, but says nothing else.  
  
And there they sit, the dwarven king and the elven lord, wrapped in their individual silences, until there's a knock at the door, heralding the bright presence of the one who'd brought them together in the first place.  
  


*

  
  
The next evening, Thorin finds himself outside chambers he's never visited before, hand poised to knock.  
  
He's there for long moments, swallowing his own discomfort—not to mention his own  _pride_ , for he loathes having to ask a favor of a former-rival no matter how long ago that rivalry, nor how overhwelmingly weighted in Thorin's favor—before he finally brings his knuckles to bear against the wood, rapping smartly.  
  
The door is yanked open almost immediately by a laughing, breathless, barefoot and half-naked, messy-haired, wanton-eyed  _Fili_ , who's already speaking in a very heated rush: “ _That_  bloody-well took you long enough, love—forget dinner, I'm  _long_  past ready to be buggered sensele— _UNCLE_?!  
  
Fili looks quite shocked, to say the least, to see his uncle and king standing there, instead of someone whom Thorin can only presume—with a shudder at the mental image that comes with it—is Master Bofur.  
  
Said uncle and king feels rather as gobsmacked as his nephew looks. “Fili,” he says gruffly, nodding as if he'd expected the greeting he'd received.  
  
“You're, er . . . not Bofur,” Fili says when nearly a minute of shock and horror has passed. Thorin snorts.  
  
“Well-spotted. I can see I chose well when I made you my heir.”  
  
Fili blushes, yanking up the only item of clothing he's wearing: breeches, which ride low, indeed on his narrow hips.  
  
“Er—ah—come in, Uncle,” he stammers, bowing low and stepping back to let Thorin past. After a few moments of hesitation, Thorin enters Master Bofur's chambers, looking around the small, furniture-choked antechamber. “Bofur's not, er, here, at the moment. He went to get supper a little earlier than the lad usually brings it.”  
  
Thorin snorts, feeling more than a twinge of jealously that someone—even though it's his own nephew—is getting the one thing he cannot let himself have with the only person he'd have it with. “Worked up an appetite, have you?”  
  
Fili's blush deepens. “Erm—ah—” he stammers again, clutching at the waistband of his breeches—the ones he'd been wearing in Court, so he must have come straight to Bofur's chambers after Court was done—and running a hand over his mussed, unbraided hair. Thorin sighs and decides to let Fili off the hook.  
  
“I was merely joking. Though, yes, I  _have_  come to see Master Bofur.” He takes another glance around the antechamber again, noticing that what he'd in passing taken to be furniture is, mostly . . . unfinished pieces of work—machinery and the like. And more than a few pieces that look like toys. Strange toys, but toys, nonetheless.  
  
 _Well, I've certainly come to the right person,_  Thorin thinks, following a still-nervous Fili into the main chamber, which is similarly cluttered with bits of machinery and toys, and junk that Thorin can't put a name or purpose to. Fili weaves between and around these things as if he's been doing so for quite some time.  
  
Thorin supposes he has.  
  
“He should be back in a few minutes—he's already been gone for the better part of an hour. I'm starting to think he's been kidnapped,” Fili says ruefully, but darting a smile back at Thorin, who returns it wryly.  
  
Eventually, having stubbed his toe several times on things made of metal and of wood—and even, partially, of stone—Thorin finds himself standing in a relatively clear area near a fireplace that's gone almost completely dead.  
  
“Erm, please excuse the chill . . . Bofur never remembers to have wood or coal brought in for the fireplaces, and never remembers to remind  _me_  to do so, so it's always sort of cold in here,” Fili says, gesturing at one of several chairs around a medium-sized table near the fireplace. Thorin chooses one that appears to be free of small tools and bolts, and sits. Fili takes the chair across from him—jumping back up briefly to remove a spanner that he'd missed from the chair. He places it on the table with a small laugh.  
  
Then he and Thorin are sitting, smiling uncomfortably at each other, neither knowing what to say.  
  
“He should be back—really, any minute now.”  
  
“That's good.”  
  
“And you can stay for supper, if you like—there's usually more food than Bofur and I end up finishing before morning,” Fili says, then flushes again. “That is, er—“  
  
“Thank you for your kind offer, Nephew, but Master Baggins and I are dining with Lord Elrond, as usual.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Yes.” Thorin clears his throat and avoids looking at his half-naked nephew whose chest is—now that he's facing Thorin and has been for a few minutes—rather liberally speckled in love-bites. Thorin can't help but make a face, and Fili turns positively  _crimson_.  
  
Suddenly he jumps up, startling Thorin. “You know, I think I'll go put on a shirt,” Fili declares, seeming more uncomfortable than ever.  
  
“I would appreciate it if you did.” Thorin tells Fili's back—also covered in love-bites—with a shudder and a relieved sigh as his nephew hurries toward what Thorin presumes is Master Bofur's bedchamber. Then Thorin's leaning back in the chair with another sigh. Some of his tension flows out of him—Court is never easy and the throne is never  _comfortable_  . . . which is as it should be—as he clears his mind of everything that'd been taxing it since the day began. Which it did with Master Baggins showing up with breakfast . . . and said breakfast had not even been touched due to a simple kiss on Bilbo's cheek turning into a heated tasting of Bilbo's lips and fevered exploration of the hobibt's mouth. And throat. And neck.  
  
“We mustn't,” Thorin had murmured in Bilbo's ear as Bilbo nibbled on Thorin's. “My love, we _mustn't_.”  
  
“I know,” Bilbo had breathed. Then carried on nibbling Thorin's ear even as Thorin's hands settled on his backside, where they squeezed and squeezed, and held the hobbit tight against him. They were both hard and not shy about it. “I know.”  
  
Finally, Thorin had gasped out: “If we don't stop soon, I'm going to come from just this.”  
  
“ _Yes_. . . .”  
  
“Bilbo . . . I don't want to disappoint you when it can't go any further than these mere touches. . . .”  
  
And Bilbo had broken off worrying at Thorin's ear lobe to lean back and look him in the eyes. His own were so . . . so. . . .  
  
“You think there's anything  _mere_  about the way you touch me, my king?” Smiling, Bilbo had stolen a kiss that'd lasted for several minutes. “Do you think I wouldn't happily spend the rest of my life being touched so by you, and touching you in return . . . even if I never feel you inside me?”  
  
Thorin had sighed, leaning their foreheads together. “I think . . . you are in want and need of _better_  than someone whose own fears and issues prevent him from making love to you like you deserve. I think you deserve better than this . . . consolation prize.”  
  
“Is that what you think  _I_  think this—” Bilbo had snaked one hand between their bodies and grasped Thorin's aching bollocks before sliding it up to take Thorin's hardened prick in hand. Thorin had moaned, loud and desperate. “You think that I consider these touches a  _consolation prize_?” Bilbo had laughed a bit sadly. “Oh, Thorin . . . these touches are  _everything_  to me.  _You_ are everything to me.”  
  
“And  _you_  are everything to  _me_  . . . you mean the world to me . . . and that is why,” Thorin had sighed, stepping back and removing Bilbo's hand, though it pained him to do so in every sense of the word. “That is why I would not settle for giving you anything less than  _everything_  that is mine to give. I  _refuse_.”  
  
Bilbo had looked down, shaking his head, but not before Thorin saw the same frustration in his eyes that he, himself, felt.  
  
“I wish I could make you understand, my king,” he'd said as Thorin's other hand left his backside, and the hand still holding Bilbo's pulled that hand up to his lips for a lingering kiss. “Nothing I do with you is  _settling_. Everything we do together, every kiss, every touch, is exalted because it's  _us_. I can't explain it better than that. I fear that even in trying, at this late date, I'm beating a dead horse.”  
  
Thorin's heart had suddenly skipped a beat, but not in the pleasant way it usually did around Bilbo Baggins.  
  
“Please, my love,” Thorin had whispered, kissing Bilbo's hand again. “Do not give up on me, yet.”  
  
Bilbo had smiled, but still hadn't looked up. “I will  _never_  give up on you, Thorin Oakenshield. My faith in you is unshakable. I just . . . sometimes I get frustrated. . . .”  
  
“As do I, Bilbo. But I promise: one day soon, I  _will_  have you, and it will be worth the long wait.” Thorin had reached up to tilt Bilbo's face up so their gazes met. Bilbo's shined just a tad too brightly, but did not overflow.  
  
“I know it will be,” he'd replied, desire and passion heating his lovely eyes and coloring his soft voice, rendering it low and mesmerizing. “When at last you have me, my king . . . the skies will fall.”  
  
Said in that tone, that  _voice_ , with such utter certainty, such a statement alone had the power to make Thorin nearly come. He'd groaned and closed his eyes, pulling Bilbo close again, burying his face in the hobbit's spring-time hair. “Oh,  _my love_. . . .”  
  
And they'd stood there, embracing, both shaking, trying to fend off climaxes that were far too close at hand to be easily dismissed . . . until the clock had chimed again, signalling that it was time for the morning meeting. Time for Thorin to make good his escape.  
  
And Thorin had. He'd quickly fled Bilbo's arms and his own chambers—after grabbing the damned robe and crown—leaving breakfast and hobbit behind.  
  
When Bilbo had shown up at Court, during recess and with lunch, he'd been the same as ever, chipper and happy, no hints of the activities of that morning, or the hurt frustration that'd been in his eyes when Thorin had pulled away from him. He was as warm and charming and pleasant as ever to Thorin, and to Fili and Kili.  
  
Which'd made Thorin feel lower than the scum on the bottom of pond-scum's boot. So desperate had he been for absolution for his actions ( _all_  of them), for acknowledgement of what had happened between them this morning—he'd wanted Bilbo to  _tell_  him how to fix it. How to make things  _right_  between them. . . .  
  
 _The sled,_  Thorin had thought with the same desperation as Bilbo had left carrying the silver tray with the scant remains of lunch.  _I'll have the sled made and this week-ending or the next, I will take him sledding. I can grant at least one of his wishes . . . give him this_ one _thing he desires. . . ._  
  
Thorin is half-remembering these events and half-dozing when a slammed door and a loud voice cuts through his semi-repose:  
  
“I'm back! Sorry I took so long, love, but I ran into Gloin on the way to the kitchens and you know how he loves to jabber . . . how we  _both_  love to—oh!” The voice stops as Thorin looks around to see a surprised Master Bofur, carrying a silver tray, similar to the one on which Bilbo always brings lunch, and paused near some piece of junk, looking as gobsmacked as Fili had.  
  
“Well,” he says finally, then grins a bit uncomfortably. “ _You're_  not Fili.”  
  
The  _well-spotted_  dies on Thorin's lips when Master Bofur goes on with barely a pause, stepping forward to place the tray on the table, then bow to Thorin. His hair—unbraided and uncovered by his hat—curtains his face, but not before Thorin catches a look of wry self-deprecation on it. “So, I take it you're here to see Fili—”  
  
“Actually, love,” Fili says, stepping out of the bedchamber, fully-dressed in his Court attire, including boots and braided hair. When he draws even with Master Bofur, he gets pulled to the other's side and pecked on the cheek then the neck, lingeringly. “He's here to see  _you_.”  
  
“ _Me_?” Master Bofur's eyes widen and his mustaches twitch as he gazes at Thorin wonderingly. “What for, my king? Ever am I at your service.”  
  
“That's good to hear, Master Bofur, for I have a favor I would ask of you.” Thorin stands and links his hands behind his back. Takes a deep breath and again, swallows his pride. “I need you to design and create something for me—no, for  _Master Baggins_ —” at this, there's a flicker in Master Bofur's eyes—and Fili's—that Thorin does not miss. “—and I need it to be the sturdiest, the best, the  _most safe_  of its kind ever built. And I need it done as soon as possible.”  
  
Master Bofur blinks, then bows his head briefly. “Then soon it shall be, my king. And what is it that I'll be building for Master Baggins?”  
  
Thorin takes another breath—remembers poor, dead Gholin—and considers simply walking away, with apologies for having disturbed the pair . . . but then he thinks of Bilbo's eyes—not when he'd been promised the sled, but when he'd looked up into  _Thorin's_  eyes and said:  _I'll never touch another sled again as long as I live, if it please your majesty. This,_ I swear .  
  
Thorin remembers this—remembers Bilbo's simple promise to give up whatever he enjoyed should Thorin ask it of him. . . .  
  
 _Does not such devotion, such loyalty, deserve whatever it wishes? And, since it cannot yet get what it desires_ most _, should it not get everything_ else?  
  
Shaking his head and smiling his own wry smile, Thorin meets his nephew's eyes then Master Bofur's.  
  
“I wish you to build him . . . a sled. . . .”  
  
Master Bofur's eyebrows quirk up in surprise.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin awakens the next morning quite early—before the clock even chimes two—air whistling into and gusting out of his nose, eyes wide and reddened as they search every shadow in his dim bedchamber.  
  
He is alone, as usual.  
  
On the very tip of his tongue is a shout that thankfully remains trapped behind the prison of his teeth, but in his mind's eye he can still see . . .  _that_  unfurling like some evil blossom. . . .  
  
 _. . . Thorin, aching all over and barely conscious, hears heart-rending screams and opens his eyes to a sight that brings him to full consciousness, and will haunt him for the rest of his days:  
  
Bilbo, on his stomach, with Azog kneeling behind him, the burglar's pale, slender thighs pulled up over his own. Azog is snapping his hips forward hard and fast, and each time he does, it drives the halfling's small, limp frame forward . . . only for Azog to pull him back by the hips.  
  
Thorin tries to sit up, despite feeling as if every bone in his body has suffered a break—he tries. But his body won't respond to the commands he gives it, not in any useful way. Meanwhile, those horrible screams have stopped, and Azog is laughing that gravelly, awful orc-laughter. He's gazing over at Thorin with cold curiosity.  
  
“Do you think to save him?” he asks Thorin, smiling almost gently. “_I think _it's far too late for that,” he grunts, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his entire body stills and he throws back his head and roars, his savage, obscene satisfaction echoing into the pre-dawn air.  
  
“_No _—” Thorin tries, with one final surge to get to his feet, and it almost works.  
  
Almost.  
  
But instead of his body obeying him, it strains and struggles to get upright before falling back onto it's side, leaving Thorin at even more of a disadvantage. Meanwhile Azog is watching him once more, breathing heavily, but still smiling.  
  
“Now watch, son of Thrain, as I cut his throat.”  
  
Azog grasps Bilbo's head by the hair and pulls it up. Bilbo's face is pale, his eyes closed, as if he's already dead. Azog puts his other arm, the one that's been replaced by knives and daggers, to Bilbo's throat.  
  
"_No _. . . ." Thorin gasps, his heart seizing in his chest. . . ._  
  
“No,” Thorin whispers as his heart pounds and races and thuds. He opens eyes he hadn't even been aware of closing.  
  
This is the first time in many weeks that he's dreamed of what happened  _that night_ —since even before Bilbo had begun to share a bed with him. And longer, still, since he'd had the  _worst_ dreams—his  _own_  night terrors, in which Fili and Kili had  _not_  been so quick or so able to rescue Bilbo from Azog's knives. . . .  
  
These nightmares had usually seen Thorin wake up weeping uncontrollably for the rest of the night.  
  
And he hadn't dared tell anyone, especially Bilbo, for fear it might make the hobbit's own night terrors worse. And anyway . . . these nightmares were Thorin's own to bear. Part of his atonement for causing Bilbo to wind up in Azog's clutches, and still not one one-thousandth of what he deserved for placing such a brave, sweet,  _gentle_  soul in such dire straits.  
  
Nightmares are only his due, he'd decided, and thankful he had been that he didn't have these nightmares  _every_  night . . . anymore.  
  
And now, for the first time in months, he's had it again . . . not as bad as it could have been, but still awful. And yet nothing compared to the nightmares Bilbo suffers from, even now.  
  
He supposes they'll  _both_  keep having these . . . memory-nightmares, often or not, for as long as they live.  
  
Or . . . for as long as  _Azog the Defiler_  yet lives. . . .  
  
And already, that particular orc has lived for  _far_  too long—should have died of his wounds years ago. Should have died by Thorin's hand that awful night, before he could attempt to defile the one perfect thing in Thorin's unlucky life.  
  
Azog the Defiler needs to  _die_ , and before too much longer has passed. That he's lived this long is an affront. A testament to the hardiness of evil, and the clinging grasp with which darkness holds on to this world. . . .  
  
But it's time for  _light_  to be shined even into the many crevices such a creature can find to kip in. He needs to be rooted out and  _stamped_  out, like the pestilence he is. And if quadrupling the bounty on Azog's head won't do it, then perhaps the old-fashioned, personal way is best, after all.  
  
Perhaps . . . it's time Goblin-Cleaver came out of her semi-retirement. . . .  
  
It's been long and long since she tasted orc-blood.  
  
These are thoughts that plague Thorin until the small hours have grown slightly larger—until the clock chimes four. Said chiming finds Thorin already dressed for the day, but for crown and robe, and striding through his chambers and out the doors. If the late-night guards are surprised to see him out and about quite this early, he doesn't pause to notice.  
  
With his ground-devouring stride, it isn't long before he reaches his destination, stationed not far beyond the bounds of the royal wing, much like Master Bofur's chambers.  
  
He's knocking steadily on the door for nearly two minutes before it's answered by yet another messy-haired, half-dressed dwarf, in a tunic that's too large and too long, much the way Thorin's tunics had been too large and long on Bilbo. . . .  
  
“M-my k-king!”  
  
“Ori,” Thorin acknowledges, inclining his head slightly. “Is Dwalin awake?” he asks—demands, really, already barging past a still-blinking, sleepy-eyed Ori, and into Dwalin's chambers. Through an undecorated and unfurnished antechamber and into a similar main chamber, where a fire burns low at a hearth with two chairs (beside one of which is a small pile of books of varying sizes, and beside the other of which is a small pile of edged, but dull weapons and a large whet-stone).  
  
“Em, no, my king. Neither of us was awake, actually,” Ori says slowly, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “It's really very late. . . .”  
  
“I know. I apologize, Ori, but would you be so kind as to wake Dwalin? It's extremely important that he and I speak on a certain matter.”  
  
“Of course, my king,” Ori says with a sigh, shuffling soundlessly in his socks toward a door Thorin once more presumes leads to the bedchamber. “It'll be just a minute—er . . . please, have a seat.”  
  
Nodding distractedly, Thorin does just that, taking the seat that's obviously become  _Ori's_  and waiting on his old friend—neither a light sleeper, nor a morning person—to compose himself and make an appearance.  
  
He's waiting for rather less time than he expects, before Dwalin sits heavily in his own chair, dressed only in his breeches and boots. Thorin is startled by his sudden presence. Ever he forgets that the larger dwarf can move in near-perfect silence, when he chooses to.  
  
“Is Ori still out here?” Thorin asks, looking around for the younger dwarf. Dwalin snorts, casting Thorin a wry glance.  
  
“Ori's not even still  _awake_ , my king.” Snorting again, but this time fondly, Dwalin rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck so loudly even Thorin winces. “You pick a strange time for a visit.”  
  
“This is no idle chat I wish to have, Dwalin,” Thorin says grimly, glancing down at the books near Ori's chair. All histories, from what he can see. Just the sorts of things Bilbo would read for pleasure, and Thorin would read—well, not at all.  
  
He smiles a little, then looks back at Dwalin, that smile fading. The other dwarf is watching him just as grimly, all hints of fondness for his lover or amusement at Thorin's very early and unexpected visit gone. “Tell me, my king: Who'll be ending this day with his neck on a block?”  
  
Thorin's eyes narrow at Dwalin's uncannily incisive way of putting it, then spits out the name that's been on his tongue for what seems like aeons: “Azog. The Defiler.”  
  
Dwalin's eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise.


	18. Dawn of a New Age 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sledding happens, as do other things. Thorin receives some . . . news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm just sampling, like a DJ mixing old-school jams with modern flava. Werd.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

“I think we might be able to get in another few hills before lunch, love . . . don't you?”  
  
Thorin picks Bilbo up out of the tumbled, giggling heap into which he'd finally rolled after the sled had come to a stop some yards away from their  _current_  hill and most of the way to the  _next_. The hobbit is absolutely no help as Thorin rights him and brushes snow and bits of ice from the askew cloak and clothes, and mussed hair. But bright, excited eyes, a flushed face, and a wide, white smile beam up at Thorin so happily, Thorin cannot help but return it.  
  
For Bilbo  _is . . . Master Baggins_  is. . . .  
  
“By Durin, you are  _lovely_ , Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin whispers, the fingers that'd really just been playing with Bilbo's soft hair for the past minute or so, drifting down to Bilbo's cheek to brush the smooth, heated skin. Bilbo flushes a bit deeper and giggles again, but does not look away. He leans, as always, into Thorin's touch, and with a wistful sigh.  
  
“I warn you, my lord, I will  _not_  be distracted—even in such a complimentary way—from the fact that there are at least five more hills within easy walking distance of the Mountain. Hills which I have yet to conquer,” Bilbo murmurs, his eyes dancing with humor. Thorin is the one to sigh, now. He wants to tilt Bilbo's face up to his own and steal a kiss. But instead, he turns away and busies himself with collecting the sled.  
  
“ _Easy walking distance_?” He snorts and hefts the solid,  _heavy_  contraption—the thing is the size of a small wagon, and at least half the weight, it seems. Long enough for three, possibly four, and certainly the sturdiest thing Thorin's seen besides the Mountain itself. “That's amusing, coming from the person who's  _not carrying_  this blasted behemoth!”  
  
“Is this the same dwarf who said he'd  _gladly_  be my  _beast of burden_?” Bilbo's tone is tart and teasing, and Thorin can imagine the hobbit standing there, hands on hips, eyebrow quirked, and one fuzzy, impervious foot tapping and tamping down icy snow.  
  
“I would be your beast of burden—your  _slave_  even, my love. I think that you'll find that I already am,” Thorin adds quietly, turning with the sled in his arms to find Bilbo standing much as he'd imagined. “But you, in turn, must learn to be a kind master.”  
  
“I  _am_  a kind master, am I not?” Bilbo's lips twitch with suppressed laughter. “Why, we've only been up seven hills!”  
  
“And you propose  _five more_!”  
  
“A  _mere_  five more, love—alright, how about  _four_  more?” Bilbo bats his eyes ridiculously at Thorin who is most definitely not moved. Not in the slightest.  
  
Though he does feel it prudent to come at this conversation from another angle. One from which he's not at a disadvantage. “What about the snow-hobbit you wanted to build? And don't think  _I_ didn't notice you came out here without old clothing, carrots, or bits of coal.” Thorin quirks an eyebrow of his own, and Bilbo's flush deepens into a blush.  
  
“Well,” he splutters and stammers, “I suppose I must've forgot them in all the excitement of finally getting to go sledding . . . but honestly, Thorin, we can do that next time—there'll be plenty of wet snow for making snow-hobbits and snow-dwarves till the middle of spring, practically. But there's only a couple weeks of good sledding left. Oin, himself, has said we're only getting one more  _good_  snow before the weather starts changing, and. . . .” Bilbo breaks off with another sigh and a sheepish smile. “And I really just wanted to spend the morning sledding. Hopefully at least once with my love right behind me.”  
  
Thorin once more returns the smile, but apologetically. “I am sorry, my love, but I haven't touched a sled since before you were born. Not because I fear for my safety, but beceause it would remind me of that of which I try not to think” he says, and Bilbo steps closer to him—as close as he can get with the large sled between them. One gloved hand settles on Thorin's left one.  
  
“The trick is not to avoid that which causes you to remember unpleasantness . . . but to make _new_  memories that  _overlay_  the unpleasant ones.” His smile turns fond, his eyes as warm and reassuring as ever they are. “If you'd been sparring with Dwalin, and hurt yourself while learning a certain attack from him, would you never, ever try to do that attack again?”  
  
“Of course not,” Thorin answers immediately, slightly confused by the sudden change of subject. “I'd have Dwalin kick my arse at it twenty times a day until I became proficient at it. I wouldn't shy away from something so potentially valuable simply because it'd once dealt me a hurt. I wouldn't throw away the good with the bad. I would keep at it till I could finally use such an attack to my advantage. I would expect no less of myself. Or of Dwalin.”  
  
Bilbo's smile turns wry. “And that is why one does not avoid bad memories, but tries to overlay them with happier ones. Not only to lessen pain and increase the potential for joy, but because, well, it simply  _wouldn't do_  to let the bad—be they people or injuries or memories— _win_.”  
  
When Thorin twigs to the parallel Bilbo has so neatly drawn, he finds  _himself_  flushing. “But, my love, this is sledding, not sparring. I don't think—”  
  
“ _I am not Gholin,_ ” Bilbo leans in to whisper, his eyes intent and serious quite suddenly. “I will not be injured or killed while sledding. And  _you do not_  have to stand on the sidelines, holding your breath and waiting for me to be dealt some mortal harm. You don't have to . . . to refuse to enjoy yourself as if doing so will keep me safe.  
  
“Come down this hill with me, King Thorin,” Bilbo searches Thorin's eyes and them smiles, small and hopeful. “Conquer your fear of an accident long past and let me help you make some  _good_ memories.”  
  
Thorin pulls away from Bilbo— _turns away_ , yet again, from that too-canny gaze. For once more, for only the second time in a very long time, he is overcome by his memories of that awful day. . . .  
  
He remembers clearly running toward his too-still, too-quiet friend—Frerin, yet again ignored for the moment, for if the boy could wail so loudly, surely he was not as badly injured as Gholin, who'd been so  _silent_  . . . his neck turned at such a limp, unnatural angle—only to discover what he'd in all honesty already known: Gholin, son of Holbin, was  _dead_.  
  
Thorin remembers how it'd felt . . . as if he couldn't breathe, for long moments, while he'd stared down at Gholin's pale, dead face, forever trapped in a rictus of surprise and fear.  
  
And  _never_  will Thorin forget brushing snowflakes and ice away from the other boy's hair and face before leaning down to kiss his forehead.  
  
“May the Halls of Waiting welcome you with great joy and cheering,” he'd whispered on Gholin's icy skin.  
  
Then he'd closed the wide, dark, ordinary-brown eyes—eyes that had no longer sparkled with quick humor and intelligence, or glowed with an innate kindness and character that Thorin had admired even as he'd begun to realize he was becoming enamored of it—and brushed another soft kiss at the corner of Gholin's parted lips. . . .  
  
Turning once more to face a  _different_  pair of eyes that sparkle with humor and intelligence, and glow with kindness and character—only the second pair of eyes he's ever loved thus—Thorin blinks away tears that have already begun to cool in the freezing air.  
  
“Two hills,” he says firmly, and Bilbo grins and whoops. Then sneezes forcefully. Thorin frowns, noting his hobbit's shivering, which he'd first taken for excitement only. “And then we go back into the Mountain, get you dressed in warm,  _dry_  clothes and a hot meal in you.”  
  
Bilbo rolls his eyes, but they're still shining with happiness and . . . pride . . . in  _Thorin_ , it would seem.  
  
(Thorin cannot quite countenance it. It has been so long since someone was  _proud of him_.)  
  
“Yes, Mum,” Bilbo replies, bobbing up on his toes to kiss the tip of Thorin's nose, then his lips. He lingers but moments at this latter location, but for long enough that Thorin is rewarded with the natural sweetness he so loves to taste. . . .  
  
“Come, my lord, the hill draws no nearer,” Bilbo breaks the kiss to say, eyes lit up like a child's. Thorin sighs, glancing at the aforementioned hill. It's high, but not terribly steep. The snow that rests upon it seems uniform, uninterrupted by outcroppings of stone or ice.  
  
A safe hill for sledding, if such a thing could be said to exist.  
  
“Soonest begun is soonest done, I suppose,” Thorin mutters without anticipation, and Bilbo laughs, his small, gloved hands companionably clutching Thorin's left arm as Thorin settles the heavy sled on his right shoulder. A gentle rain of snow from the runners falls on them as they approach the waiting hill.  
  


*

  
  
“ . . . and we were going so fast, it felt like we were  _flying_! It was  _glorious_ , was it not, my king?”  
  
“Indeed, it was,” Thorin says, chuckling quite nervously, though he quite agrees with Bilbo's assessment. He closes the door to the hobbit's chambers, places the sled against an antechamber wall, and follows Bilbo into the main room, where they pause in front of the dwindling fire. Bilbo looks up into Thorin's eyes, his own still dancing and excited.  
  
“Aren't you glad I made you go practically at swordpoint?” Bilbo's voice is tart with amusement once more and Thorin's smile, though as nervous as his chuckle, is genuine.  
  
“Well . . . it certainly was . . . exhilarating, Master Baggins,” Thorin allows blandly and Bilbo makes a rude noise. But then he leans close to kiss Thorin's cheek tenderly, causing Thorin to quickly suppress a soft, desperate moan. But Bilbo doesn't seem to notice, mind obviously still flying down the foothills of Erebor. . . .  
  
“As ever, damned by faint praise. Hmph. I  _heard_  you whooping and laughing like a faunt—don't think I didn't, my king.” Bilbo's smile turns fond once more. “'Twas a most  _wonderful_  sound. A sound I hope to hear more of in future . . . well, I suppose I'll go change. I shan't be a moment, but make yourself comfortable,” he orders with a bit of exasperation, finally noting that Thorin is simply standing there rather awkwardly, as if awaiting further instruction. Then he's hurrying to his bedchamber, already wrestling off his sodden cloak.   
  
When the door closes gently behind the hobbit, Thorin sheds his own soggy cloak, lets out a sigh of relief, and adjusts himself in his damp breeches, tugging his tunic more firmly over the erection that's been plaguing him since the top of the second hill. Then he sits as awkwardly as he'd stood, hunching, and hoping to make his very obvious arousal less so.  
  
He hadn't been aroused at the top of the  _first hill_ , no. At the top of the first hill, he'd been too wrapped up in his own memories and melancholy to really notice much of anything when Bilbo had settled between his legs and leaned back so trustingly and comfortably.  
  
“Push us off!” Bilbo had glanced back to gleefully command. And Thorin had done so; sent them into the slide that would take them down the hill—this time, with himself on the sled, as well.  
  
At first, it'd been almost nauseatingly awful. For a few moments, all Thorin could think was that they were  _both_  going to die during such a stupid, dangerous activity, and what had he been _thinking_  agreeing to this—letting Bilbo partake of such silliness. . . .  
  
Then Bilbo had started whooping and laughing as one mad when the sled began to pick up speed. And Thorin had found himself remembering his very first time sledding—Thror, of all people, had been the one to take him—and how frightened he'd been at first, though he hadn't shown it. And then the fright had changed to something that approached religious  _awe_  at the speed at which they'd flown down the hill Thror had chosen, which, in retrospect, had been neither particularly steep nor particularly high. But it had seemed that way to  _Thorin_  . . . and the ride had lasted an  _eternity_ , in which Thorin had fallen in love with sledding, and would spend the next ten winters doing precious little else with his free time in the cold months.  
  
Thorin had remembered how safe he'd felt with Thror's protective arm around him, and yet there'd been the thrill of racing down a hill that'd seemed almost as tall as the Mountain, itself, and at speeds surely faster than any dwarf had ever traveled. . . .  
  
Remembering this, as he'd in turn kept a protective arm around his hobbit, the boy who would always live within Thorin had stepped forward in their shared head- and heart-space . . . and begun to laugh. And whoop. Louder, even, than Master Baggins had been. The world was naught but a white-and-grey blur, freezing wind that almost cut like knives whipped his hair and lashed his face, and it had been. . . .  
  
 _Glorious_.  
  
Even at the bottom of the hill—which came both too soon and not soon enough, in the way that all exciting things come to an end—they coasted and howled laughter, till the sled slowly rebounded off the next hill, sliding backward a bit before stopping.  
  
“Oh, my king—how amazing! We went  _even faster_  than I did when by myself!” Bilbo had exclaimed, getting to his knees unsteadily, and turning on the sled to face Thorin and kiss him soundly on the mouth. Still laughing, Thorin had kissed the hobbit back, sucking uncoordinatedly at lips that were candy-sweet and soft after the taste of sharp, icy air, and holding him tight. All was breathless excitement and thrill and the zing of  _rightness_  that accompanied every kiss with Master Baggins.  
  
Then they were helping each other up and dusting each other off, still laughing. Thorin had toted the sled up on one shoulder, his other arm around Bilbo as they climbed that next hill. And it was as they trekked up the snowy incline that Thorin had first noticed the state of himself: suddenly hard enough to pound nails and desperate to do something about it, damn the wet and the snow.  
  
Half-pleased and half-fearful by the time they reached the top of the hill, he'd wondered what Bilbo's response would be when the hobbit settled back against him on the sled. But Bilbo, still chattering about the previous hill, hadn't even seemed to notice. And rather than give him time to do so, Thorin had almost immediately started them down this hill, a protective arm once more about his hobbit's waist.  
  
The rush and thrill that second slide had caused had not helped matters. Not at all.  
  
Bilbo had been hinting about about perhaps  _one more_  hill before lunch, but Thorin—aroused and beginning to feel frustrated, knowing as he had, that such arousal couldn't lead anywhere but an eventual and relatively unsatisfying wank alone—had put his foot down and begun marching back toward the Mountain, sled on his shoulder once again.  
  
Bilbo had eventually caught up, his face set in a pout that made Thorin want to kiss him silly . . . a pout Bilbo couldn't keep up, as excited and happy as he had been. Indeed, no less than  _nine_ hills had been done in one morning, and Master Baggins was  _quite_  pleased. . . .  
  
He had not noticed Thorin's awkward, slouching shambles of a walk. Nor Thorin's irritable, nervous silence.  
  
And now, sitting before Bilbo's fire, unable to will away  _this_  erection—not likely to have the time and privacy to wank till just before dinner, for on his days off, he and Bilbo spend their whole days together—he grouses, glaring rather morosely into the small flames. . . .  
  
“You look to be in a mood!” Bilbo exclaims, startling Thorin out of his contemplation of the unfairness of life. He's changed into a familiar pair of brown trousers, white shirt, and green waistcoat, and is smiling down at Thorin but with a tinge of worry. “Did something happen while I was changing? Is everything alright? You're not regretting going sledding, are you?”  
  
Returning the smile somewhat weakly, Thorin stands and takes Bilbo's hands in his own, kissing each one briefly. “That, I do not, my love. I never regret  _anything_  we do together.”  
  
“Hmph. Well. Good,” Bilbo says sternly, but obviously fighting a grin that nonetheless curves his lovely lips so invitingly, Thorin sighs softly, yearningly. And he will later blame the towering and impatient arousal drummed up by the sledding for his next precipitous action:  
  
He pulls Bilbo close and kisses that almost-grin, instantly parting his lips to taste it, as well. And Bilbo, of course, goes willingly—though with a surprised  _oomph!_ —into Thorin's arms, his own immediately coming up to wind around Thorin's neck as Thorin's hands settle briefly on his waist.  
  
Then Thorin's hands slide around to Bilbo's backside, where they clutch and squeeze and pull the hobbit closer, till there's no doubt in what's left of Thorin's mind at the moment that Bilbo can feel his arousal. His  _need_.  
  
In fact, Bilbo begins to press against that need rather pointedly, moaning.  
  
Moaning, himself, Thorin bends a little, his hands sliding down to Bilbo's thighs as he picks his hobbit up, pulling Bilbo's legs up to bracket his thighs.  
  
Bilbo gasps into their continuing kiss, his legs automactically wrapping tight around Thorin's hips as he rocks his own hips forward and back.  
  
And so, in this way, is hardness able to thrust and rub against burgeoning hardness, until their kiss has become little more than panting interspersed with a few licks, and nips of gentle teeth.Thorin's thrusts meet Bilbo's wriggling and the friction of it is nearly enough to drive Thorin mindless and mad with his own desires.  
  
“Please, Thorin,” Bilbo breathes, arms around Thorin's neck tight enough to almost strangle. And Thorin, well past the point of no return—and too far gone to even hear, let alone pay heed to the querolous voice urging him to  _stop_  . . . to  _remember_  that he'd promised that he would give his hobbit more than  _this_ —sinks to his knees on the fire-warmed hearthstones, squeezing Bilbo to him tight for a demanding kiss, before laying the hobbit down gently and kneeling between instantly spread legs.  
  
Thorin's fumbling with Bilbo's fly—tantalized by the heat and hardness behind it as he is—results in three buttons popped off, two of which go rolling into the fireplace. But Thorin doesn't notice or care, for he has Bilbo in hand for long moments—and keeps him so—in which the hobbit pants and groans, thrusting into Thorin's tight grasp.  
  
Then Thorin lets go to quickly throw off his own tunic and undershirt simultaneously, then without a pause shove down his breeches just enough to free his prick, for he will not suffer the near-agony of  _not touching_  Master Baggins for longer than he has to.  
  
In moments that feel like eternities, he's stroking Bilbo's flushed, gorgeous prick once more, wringing the most delicious sounds from his near-delirious hobbit.  
  
And Bilbo's eyes, which had widened almost comically as Thorin revealed himself, dilate till only the thinnest ring of autumn-blue is visible. He stares and stares at Thorin as one who is starving.  
  
“I'd forgotten how . . .  _marvelous_  you are to behold, my king,” he finally whispers breathlessly, licking his lips. He meets Thorin's voracious gaze even as he sits up on one elbow to reach out and run a slow, sure finger down Thorin's aching, leaking length.  
  
Groaning, Thorin's whole body shudders as Bilbo traces a throbbing vein all the way to the tip of Thorin's prick, thence to run his fingertip around the head of it. His eyes never leave Thorin's as he removes his finger to his lips, delicately licking, then wantonly sucking at the wetness thereon. . . .  
  
When Thorin can once more open clinched eyes he hadn't been aware of closing, he and Bilbo gaze at each other for several moments—Bilbo still sucking guilelessly, unself-consicously on his finger—before the latter smiles incandescently, laughs, then lays down and opens his arms wide. “Come to me, my king.”  
  
“My love.” Thorin goes into those arms with a sigh, burying his face in the hollow between Bilbo's neck and shoulder, simply inhaling Bilbo's scent. . . .  
  
Then he's leaning up to take Bilbo's lips in a kiss that tastes of himself and of Bilbo's sweetness, one hand balancing himself and bearing his weight, the other tugging down on Bilbo's trousers roughly—not even stopping when they rip down the inseam and Bilbo grunts and chuckles into the kiss.  
  
But sooner, rather than later, Bilbo's kicking off the remains of his trousers and pushing down Thorin's breeches with a bit more consideration. Finally, uwilling or unable to tear the fabric from his lover, Bilbo simply settles for getting the breeches down past mid-thigh to Thorin's knees, then wraps his legs around Thorin's hips once more. Thorin settles more of his weight on Bilbo, driving his hips down against Bilbo's, hardness sliding wetly against hardness.  
  
Bilbo cries out into their kiss, shivering and shaking as he cants his hips—angles them toward Thorin's and arches up into each thrust down against him.  
  
Thorin's free hand goes to Bilbo's thigh, then his backside, grasping and squeezing once more, hard enough to leave bruises, he doubts it not.  
  
Then he's inching his fingers toward the small, sensitive strip of skin just behind bollocks and before the tight, tempting pucker that Thorin has long denied himself. He fingers this miniscule landscape slowly, roughly, till Bilbo's making high, helpless noises in his throat, one hand clutching at the back of Thorin's neck, the other bracing against Thorin's shoulder.  
  
And certainly, it  _must_  be the overwhelming excitement fostered by their morning spent racing down hills, on that  _damnably-heavy_  sled, that causes Thorin to silence his mind and conscience as his finger trails further back, to that tiny, virgin paradise—to trace its bounds teasingly before pressing his finger against it just hard enough that his fingertip enters Bilbo a little. . . .  
  
“ _Oh . . . oh,_ THORIN!” Bilbo gasps out, his head dropping back to the warm stones of the hearth, eyes wide and unseeing, mouth a pretty, pink “O” of surprise and pleasure. Then his eyes are squinched tight-shut as his body shakes and shudders and jerks, his climax twitching him about—as much as it can under Thorin's weight—as he comes hot and heavily on Thorin's prick and abdomen.  
  
“My love,” Thorin murmurs again, hoarsely, stealing kisses from lips that struggle to respond even as they're caught in breathless gasps and helpless cries of pleasure in the aftermath of his climax. Thorin's index finger pushes a little way further into Bilbo's tight, hot, clenching body, the calloused tip of his thumb dragging against and brushing that thin strip of skin, even as Bilbo's starts gasping once more, his body going rigidly still before trying to come again . . . and succeeding if the renewed pulses of wet heat on Thorin's own flesh are anything to go by.  
  
Kissing his way from Bilbo's swollen lips, down to his throat and collarbone, burying his hot face in the hotter hollow between Bilbo's neck and shoulder, Thorin concentrates on the heat that keeps and clutches at and spasms around his finger, and imagines pushing his prick oh, so slowly . . . oh, so carefully into such a fluttering, small, but welcoming haven. Imagines Bilbo's body as one sweet, soft cry of joy as Thorin slides into him . . . slides  _home_.  
  
Thorin imagines this and finally achieves his own quickly-escalating climax with a roar, driving his hips down against Bilbo's forcefully, several times, as Bilbo's arms slide around his neck and the hobbit whisper-pants in his ear:  
  
“ _Yes, my king,_  yes!” and: “Have me _, Thorin, right here on this hearth. . . !_ ”  
  
Then Thorin's hearing nothing but the beat of his own heart and the rush of his own blood as his release is drawn from him even more by Bilbo's words of encouragement and desire, than by Thorin's own fevered imaginings of what finally having Bilbo will be like. With ungentle, impatient hands that also shake, he hitches Bilbo's legs up high and pushes his own spurting prick down past bollocks, dragging the tip against the brief patch of sensitive skin—which causes Bilbo to shout with both hope and desperation—before he reaches the one treasure he even now _dares not_  plunder. . . .  
  
“Thorin, oh,  _Thorin_ , please, yes,  _now_. . . .” Bilbo is chanting with mindless abandon, his voice husky and cracking with an unslaked desire that matches Thorin's own. His body is clearly struggling to come for a third time, still shaking and shivering and spasming. “Please,  _take me!_ ”  
  
“Oh, my love . . .  _soon_  . . . I prom—” Thorin grits out, and with one final groan, pumps out the last of his release onto Bilbo's twitching pucker, the tip of his prick poised and pressed against it. Then he's collapsing limply, heavily on top of Bilbo with a shout of his own—partially despairing, for it is the cry of one who knows that where other lovers may sate,  _this lover_  will only incite a thirsting for more that will  _never_  be quenched, even with time and repeated draughts—panting, with tears running from his tired eyes and wetting Bilbo's shoulder.  
  
They lay there until Bilbo's clock chimes noon, and Thorin experimentally tries to move: he twitches one closed eyelid.  
  
Bloody  _exhausting_ , that is, and he resolves to lay quietly for a few days, till this pleasant ennervation has left him. . . .  
  
“ _Well_ ,” Bilbo murmurs lowly, shakily, against Thorin's hair, kissing it tenderly and stroking it lazily. “ _That_  was terrible beyond description.”  
  
Thorin snorts out a brief laugh and clutches Bilbo tighter. “For me, as well, my love,” he replies, and Bilbo rests his head on Thorin's and clutches him back with arms  _and_  legs, as if he fears Thorin will leave him.  
  
 _I couldn't leave you, now, even if I wanted to. And I do_ not _want to._  “I love you, Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
Silence, for a minute . . . but that silence is filled with the slow drip of warm tears into Thorin's hair. Then Bilbo sniffles and clears his throat . . . presses another kiss to Thorin's hair. “And I love  _you_ , Thorin Oakenshield,” he breathes softly.  
  
And they lay like that till the chamber has grown dim, and the hearthstones quite cool.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin awakens to a loud knocking on the doors to his chambers.  
  
Only—he realizes as he sits up, carefully disentangling himself from Bilbo Baggins' sleeping, clinging naked body—he's  _not_  in his own chambers.  
  
He's in  _Master Baggins'_  chambers.  
  
And with that realization comes the rememberance of  _why_  and  _how_. . . .  
  
He'd come closer than ever to making love to his hobbit today. He'd sampled the tight, welcoming heat that awaits him in the near future, and nearly been scorched by the pleasure of possessing Bilbo with even just one tip of one finger. . . .  
  
And there'd been no sense of guilt or wrongness when he did so. Even now, however many hours later—after they'd recovered enough to get up from the hearth and finish undressing, then Thorin had carried his lovely hobbit into the bedchamber, and laid him down, only to explore Bilbo with kisses, licks, and love-bites until the hobbit fell fast asleep—Thorin still feels a dearth of his usual guilt and self-loathing for having broken his word to himself and to Bilbo. His word to  _wait_  until he could give Bilbo his  _all_.  
  
Till he is  _worthy_  of Bilbo. . . .  
  
 _Though if I wait till I'm worthy, if only in my own eyes, then the day we make love may never come. If I wait for the perfect time to overlay, as Bilbo says, his memories of what Azog did to him, with newer, happier memories of_ us _. . . might I not be waiting for-ever?  
  
Perhaps . . . perhaps it is time that I . . . simply let us both do as we will. Come what may. And if either of us is harmed by it, we can deal with such harm as we have dealt with everything else fate has thrown at us: together. And if it does _not _harm us . . . then I'll be too busy loving my hobbit to waste time on castigating myself as I have been. And that is an admittedly lovelier prospect than an eternity spent_ waiting to be worthy,  _when I can't even explain to myself what, exactly, 'worthy' is!_  
  
Thorin sighs, wishing, momentarily, that Lord Elrond were here to advise him. Though he knows almost to the  _word_  what the elven lord would tell him.  
  
 _And perhaps I should try doing as he said all those weeks ago, and listening to_ Bilbo's _heart. For it_ is _wise. Wiser than mine, at any rate. And no matter what_ I _do or do not deserve,_ Master Baggins _deserves_ whatsoever _he wants. . . .  
  
And I would . . . I would _overlay _his most unpleasant memories with happier ones. Overlay the forcible violation of his body with as tender a taking as it is in me to perform. I would do this repeatedly, for the rest of our lives, until Azog's attempt to defile him is so distant a memory that it never causes him pain, either waking or sleeping. To this, I would dedicate my entire existence, with no thought for anything else. Even ruling Erebor would pale besides such a noble and delightful goal._  
  
A glance at Bilbo turns into a gaze as fond as it is hungry . . . at least until the impatient knocking at the door somehow gets even louder, recalling Thorin to the present.  
  
With a growl, he eases out of Bilbo's arms and Bilbo's bed, and pulls the covers up over the sleeping hobbit before following the trail of clothes they'd left to the bedroom. He pulls the door close behind him but doesn't shut it fast, for fear of the loud click waking Bilbo from what appears to be a sound and restful sleep.  
  
Then he's gathering up his own clothes and dressing as he goes to the main doors, wondering with a possessive sort of jealousy  _who_  feels the need to see  _his_  hobbit so badly—and who thinks they have the  _right_  to be so  _persistent_  about it. . . .  
  
Dwalin doesn't even wait to be asked in, merely strides past Thorin into Bilbo's chambers proper, making immediately for the chairs near the fire. He eyes Bilbo's torn and discarded trousers—left where they'd fallen in the midst of their passion—and the trail of Bilbo's clothing leading to the bedchamber door. Then he turns that canny gaze on Thorin with a knowing smirk.  
  
“Am I interrupting something?”  
  
“You would've been  _interrupting_  a few of hours ago,” Thorin says bluntly, glancing at Bilbo's clock. It's nearly four . . . closer to dinner than to lunch. And yet Thorin does not feel lunch's lack. “Now you're merely  _imposing_. So, what business brings you here? It  _is_  business, I presume?”  
  
“Aye. 'Tis.” Dwalin nods and bows his head. “We've finally got a nibble. Well, more than a  _nibble_. The whole bloody  _meal_ , practically.” Snorting, Dwalin sits heavily in Bilbo's chair, which creaks disapprovingly. “Recently, while . . .  _lingering_  near the Northeast-most edge of Mirkwood, Kili's elven maid tracked a band of warg-riders at least fifteen or twenty strong. They were, she claims, led by a pale orc with one arm off and replaced by knives. . . .”  
  
Thorin freezes in the act of sitting in  _his_  chair, and turns a gobsmacked gaze on Dwalin, who smiles, grim, but excited. “He's been  _spotted_ , my king.  __Azog the Defiler's been spotted.”


	19. Dawn of a New Age 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which good things happen . . . and not-so-good things also happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Me no steal. Me just borrow.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Thorin drops into his chair like a stone into a well.  
  
For long moments he does not even know what to ask. Then finally a question comes tumbling fom his numb lips: “When was this, Dwalin?”  
  
The other dwarf's fierce brows draw together. “Some days ago, now, for she tracked the orcs from the tip of the Northeast bounds of Mirkwood, further South along those bounds. They were, indeed, lingering, she says, as if directionless or waiting for orders.”  
  
“Orders from whom, if not Azog, I'd like to know,” Thorin murmurs grimly. “Their ranks were scattered and all but destroyed, as was their command structure. At this late date, I imagine they'd take orders from none but the strongest and most evil of their number.”  
  
“Aye. And Azog is, indeed, still that,” Dwalin agrees dourly. “There's naught to contend with him for that title with the bulk of the orcs dead and in the Abyss. And few who'd care enough to bother about such folly as that.”  
  
“Mm.” Thorin nods and settles back into his chair, his mind awhirl.  _Azog . . . found!_ “And they lingered near Mirkwood, she says? As if waiting?”  
  
“That, they did. They covered little ground in the time she tracked them, neither raiding nor pillaging nor stepping foot into Mirkwood. And yet they did not, she says, seem to be hiding their presence.” Dwalin sighs unhappily. “They simply lingered and . . . waited, as if  _to be seen_.”  
  
“By what, I wonder.”  _Or whom. . . ._  
  
Dwalin's left eyebrow lifts. “I should think it'd be obvious, my king.  _You_ ,” he adds when Thorin blinks in question. “Or one who would bring you such news.  _Clearly_  this is a  _trap!_ ”  
  
“Is it, do you think?” Thorin asks absently. Though he agrees completely and whole-heartedly with Dwalin's assessment, he doesn't especially  _care_  that the dwarf is right. He cannot even _think_  beyond his own grim glee at finally having Azog the Defiler in his sights.  
  
 _A trap? Truly. One that will turn on its maker._  
  
“Do I  _think_ —I  _know_ , my king!” Dwalin is snorting. “This is a trap as sure as I'm born! After well over a year of seeing neither hide nor hair of the bastard, even with a  _ridiculously large_  bounty on his head, of a sudden, he turns up practically on our doorstep?” Snorting again, Dwalin leans forward, eyes on the dead hearth, now, as if there were indeed flames there to be glared into. “On our very doorstep and  _lingering there_  as if taunting us? For despite the days that have passed, I've  _no doubt_  that were we to take a party to where the elf lass saw them last, we'd find trouble not far off. We'd find  _double_  the number of orcs and wargs she spotted, for Azog has also . . . no doubt . . . called in all the warg-riders he can still summon so far from his former-stronghold at Khazad-dum, in anticipation of you  _walking into this trap_  either unaware, or uncaring.  
  
“This  _is_  a  _trap_ , Thorin,” Dwalin reiterates softly, turning his now worried gaze on Thorin, who meets it with a stoic one of his own. “A trap to catch a king.”  
  
“And it  _will_. It is  _Azog_ , king of Mount Gundabad, who will be caught, and his head separated from his neck,” Thorin says calmly, with a surety, his mind already turning to other things, such as logistics.  _Azog has about twenty warg-riders? Perhaps as many as forty? Then I will take seventy dwarves of superlative fighting prowess with me on this hunt.  
  
Though perhaps it might be wise to make it an even one hundred, for an orc on a warg is worse, even, than _three orcs on foot. . . .  
  
“I can see you're already on the hunt, in your mind, my king,” Dwalin says in that unhappy voice. Thorin barely notices the words or the tone. “But let me interject a little common sense into your plans:  _Azog_  has built a trap and has  _chosen_  a location in which to spring it.  _He_  has all the advantages, here! To simply follow him whither he leads, like a lamb follows a shepherd, would be the ultimate folly!”  
  
“The folly is all  _Azog's_. For attempting to end the line of  Durin. For regicide. For the occupation of Khazad-dum. For pitting his will against that of Durin's Folk. For touching what is  _mine_.” Thorin grits out this last, hands balled into tight fists, his vision suddenly tinged red with long-repressed rage. He glares over at Dwalin, who looks away, shaking his head.  
  
“Killing Azog will not undo the crimes he committed, Thorin. Nor will it ease your pain or the pain of those who share it. King Thror will still be  _dead_  . . . and Master Baggins—”  
  
“Do not finish that sentence,” Thorin warns quietly, and Dwalin subsides with another sigh.  
  
“As you will, your majesty. But I still say to go chasing after Azog, straight into his trap, is sheer madness. As mad as storming Mount Gundabad by yourself, armed with naught but a kitchen knife.”  
  
“Then what would  _you_  have me do? Let him taunt me from the edges of Thranduil's realm? Let his crimes go unpunished?” Thorin demands, more loudly than he means to. Then he lowers his voice with a glance at the door to Bilbo's bedchamber. “Should I let him escape justice,  _yet again_?”  
  
“And  _is it_  justice you would see done upon him? Or vengeance?” Dwalin asks queitly—so quietly, Thorin can only just make out what he says. But make it out, he does, and it enrages him further.  
  
“Do you say, then, that Azog does not  _deserve_  to die for his crimes? That justice and my vengeance do not, at least in this case, coincide perfectly?”  
  
“I'm  _saying_ ,” Dwalin begins levelly, meeting Thorin's eyes again, his own miserable, but unafraid. “That the last time you went after Azog with naught but vengeance in your heart, you were nearly killed, but for Master Baggins.”  
  
 _And then Master Baggins was violated, when he came to your defense_ , goes unspoken, but hangs heavily in the air between them.  
  
Thorin sits back, stung, and looks away, tears in his eyes. Eyes that he closes, and on the backs of which, he can once more see what Azog had done to Bilbo as clearly as if it was happening again. . . .  
  
 _Dwalin is right. I cannot run off, half-mad, only to get myself injured or worse at Azog's hands. My actions have consequences—even more so than once they did. . . ._  
  
Heart hurting, Thorin hangs his head, visions of presenting Azog's head on a silver tray to his love—on the night of his triumphant return, the night that, he has often imagined it, he and Bilbo would also marry—fading like morning mist in the silver sun. “What would you have me _do_ , then?” he asks again, that sustaining rage once more tamped-down and under control. But its loss leves Thorin feeling empty and captainless.  
  
“My king, I would have you go into this not rash and hot-headed, but calculating and  _cold-hearted. Smart._  I would have you  _come back_  from this battle alive and whole, with Azog's head on a pike. I would have you  _alive_  to gloat over the besting of the feared  _King of Gundabad_ , then go on to rule Erebor for many years in wisdom, and peace and plenty.” Dwalin's hand settles on Thorin's shoulder and Thorin looks up. He hadn't even heard the other dwarf stand and move closer. Dwalin's eyes are still grim, but leavened with humor, now, as well. “For I fear what _Master Baggins_  would do to me with that letter-opener of his should I return from such a chase without his sledding partner.”  
  
Thorin finds himself almost smiling despite the lingering pain in his heart. “Well, we've seen what he can do to a warg with it—and an orc.  _I_  wouldn't be too eager to get on his bad side, either.” That almost smile becomes a full, if a sad one. Would that he  _didn't_  know how well Master Baggins could handle himself with that small sword. Would that Master Baggins had never had to come to Thorin's aide with it. Would that—  
  
 _Would that_  a great many things hadn't happened.  
  
“So. Tell me. What is  _your_  plan for handling this trap of Azog's? For I assume you have one,” Thorin asks humbly, and Dwalin smirks approvingly.  
  
“Oh, aye. I have a little something in mind. Simple, but probably more effective than walking into the bloody trap and having our heads handed to us.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I take your point, Dwalin.” Thorin rolls his eyes. “Now, tell me about this plan of yours so that we may start implementing it. Hopefully as soon as the morning.”  
  
Dwalin bows his head briefly. “As you wish, my king.” he says, squeezing Thorin's shoulder and beginning to outline his plan.  
  


*

  
  
It is nearly six in the evening before Thorin lets himself back into Bilbo's bedchamber.  
  
The hobbit is still asleep, thankfully. Still soundly so, having slept through over two hours of Thorin and Dwalin hashing out plans for flanking—and hopefully  _routing_ —Azog and his warg-riders.  
  
Now, with Dwalin off to begin implementation of these plans—and such implementation will indeed, take time and care, if it's to be done  _right_ —Thorin undresses, and crawls back into bed and pulls his sleeping hobbit close, kissing his hair and his shoulder. Bilbo begins to stir.  
  
“Thorin?” he sighs sleepily, snuggling back against Thorin with a small, contented sound. Thorin kisses his way up to Bilbo's pointed ear and gently bites the lobe, which occasions a sleepy, but interested chuckle. Bilbo reaches back and caresses Thorin's cheek with warm, gentle fingers that Thorin cannot help but kiss, as well.  
  
“I did not mean to wake you,” he admits quietly. “I simply could not resist touching you, as ever.”  
  
“You won't hear  _me_  complaining about being woken up this way,” Bilbo murmurs, wriggling against the prick which rests at the small of his back, and which is also showing definite signs of interest, in spite of the past few hours of grim planning and discussion.  
  
Indeed, Thorin moans as he slides against smooth, warm skin, and holds his hobbit tighter. “We probably shouldn't . . . we've dinner with Lord Elrond in but an hour.”  
  
“Do you really think either of us will last  _that_  long, my king?” Bilbo breathes, laughing and sliding his hand down Thorin's arm as Thorin takes him in hand and starts stroking. And it doesn't take  _much_  stroking before Bilbo is hard and breathing that way, his entire body flushed and hot in Thorin's arms. Thorin's teeth gain gentle purchase in Bilbo's shoulder and Bilbo cries out, pushing back against Thorin desperately  
  
“I don't believe that we will,” Thorin finally replies, sucking a love-mark onto Bilbo's fair skin. Then, with one final, wistful thrust of his prick along Bilbo's warm back, Thorin rolls the hobbit over, and gazes down into his lovely, trusting eyes.  
  
 _I will see you at last avenged,_  he thinks, leaning down to kiss the center of Bilbo's chest, and his nipples, before laving the right one with his tognue and biting it with careful, focused intensity. _You and my fathers before me shall at last be able to find peace with Azog's miserable life ended on the edge of my blade._  
  
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo groans, thrashing a little as Thorin's bites and licks travel to his other nipple, there to focus with equal, if not greater intensity, before Thorin turns his attentions south.  
  
When he takes Bilbo into his mouth, the hobbit cries out again, his prick surging partway down Thorin's throat as his hips buck involuntarily. Thorin hums and places his arm across Bilbo's wayward hips, pinning the hobbit to his bed.  
  
“Please . . .  _please_. . . .” Bilbo begins to beg shortly, trying to spread his legs wider, and Thorin knows what Bilbo wants. Knows, and despite a moment of hesitation—should he not wait, now, with Azog's capture at last on the horizon? Would  _this_  not make him, at last, worthy?—pulls off the hobbit's prick with torturous slowness that has Bilbo moaning and tossing his head about his pillow, still murmuring pleas, and Thorin's name.  
  
And:  _Your finger . . . again,_  please, my lord. . . ?  
  
 _It is not so much, after all . . . a finger,_  Thorin reminds himself, and the voice of his conscience, which is—bafflingly—not nearly as strident as it had been earlier.  _A finger is_ not _a prick. And even if it was, I will either return with Azog's head, in which case I will be worthy of having Bilbo in any way we desire . . . or I won't return_ at all _, and I'll at least have the memory of being inside him to take with me to the Halls of Waiting. . . ._  
  
“More than just the tip of my finger is . . . more than we've ever done. You must tell me if you change your mind, or if I . . . hurt you, in any way,” Thorin reminds Bilbo as he pushes shapely, willing legs wider. Bilbo opens his shining eyes to blink at Thorin fondly.  
  
“Yes. But  _you_  must fear not that you'll hurt me. Or that I'll wish for you to stop. Because I _won't_ ,” he replies solemnly, and Thorin . . . nods, after a few moments of searching Bilbo's calm, certain eyes.  
  
Then Bilbo's pulling his right leg up to his chest, baring for Thorin's eyes the sight of that which haunts his dreams and his every waking fantasy.  
  
Sucking on his index finger to wet it thoroughly, Thorin pushes Bilbo's leg higher and wider, then traces around the edges of his greatest temptation.  
  
Bilbo shivers and groans, and Thorin circles and circles before, finally, feinting inward with a gentle press of his finger. Bilbo hisses  _yes_  and rocks his hips up toward Thorin. Thorin's finger slips  _in_  . . . then a little deeper . . . then deeper still—slowly—till Bilbo's breathing has turned into panting and his heat has enveloped most of Thorin's thick finger.  
  
Though he wants to, at this moment, Thorin dares not take himself in hand, for fear that he will reach his climax before he's had a chance to truly pleasure his lover. And that simply would  _not_ do.  
  
Bilbo's wide eyes are watching Thorin with anticipation and awe, his lips parted and nostrils flaring as his breath gusts in and out them. Thorin can feel the elevated beat of Bilbo's heart around his finger, and even that accelerates the rush of his own blood—hardens his own prick as quickly as anything ever has. He briefly supposes he could come without laying a hand on himself. . . .  
  
But even so, he remembers his priorities. His  _responsibilities_.  
  
“Are you frightened? Am I . . . hurting you, my love?” he asks, his voice choked with strain from controlling himself. He twists his finger gently, and Bilbo shakes his head once, smiling, though he must surely be experiencing  _some_  discomfort.  
  
“Never,” he says, and Thorin, for once, chooses to take him at his word. Dares, at last, to gaze upon his finger as it slides into, pulls slightly out of, then slides just a little bit deeper into Bilbo's accepting—even  _eager_ —body. The sight is . . . affecting—not unexpectedly—to say the least, and his breath catches.  
  
He is—at least in some way, however less than ideal— _inside Bilbo Bagins._  
  
Groaning and closing his eyes—for fear that he  _will come,_  untouched—Thorin pushes his finger forward, slowly deeper, till it can go no further, and Bilbo is clenching and twitching and fluttering around him in tiny, tempting spasms. Till Bilbo's breathing carries moans on its back, as well as whispers of wanton, decidedly licentious affection.  
  
When he opens his eyes once more, Thorin is torn between staring at the place where their bodies are joined, and gazing upon Bilbo's face in these moments of semi-ravishment. For never has Bilbo seemed more lovely. In this moment of helpless abandon and need, never has he felt more like  _Thorin's hobbit_.  
  
“ _My_  love,” Thorin murmurs, and: “ _Mine_.”  
  
“Yours,” Bilbo agrees instantly, throwing his head back into the pillows as Thorin twists and crooks his finger once more, searching, searching, searching. . . .  
  
When he finds what he's looking for, Bilbo lets out a long, wavering cry and practically levitates off the bed in surprise and pleasure. What feels like every muscle in Bilbo's small body is brought to bear on Thorin's finger, and he grunts, forcing away his own fevered imaginings of his _prick_  being engulfed in such tight, hot, clenching flesh. As ever, it is his wish—his _determination_ —to watch his lover come before he, himself, does.  
  
“Oh,  _THORIN_!” Bilbo cries out, now pulling his other leg up to his chest as well, as if to give Thorin more and better access, though Thorin needs neither to once again find and put pressure on that slightly protruding spot inside Bilbo . . . the one that will, it seems, make him scream every time it's pressed.  
  
And indeed, Bilbo's prick has gone beyond hard, flushed, and rosy, to angry-red and as stiff as a flagpole in winter.  
  
Thorin leans down to kiss the base of Bilbo's prick and the bollocks that lay heavily below them, all the while stroking that spot until Bilbo is begging Thorin with more barely-articulate pleas . . . though for what, the hobbit clearly doesn't know.  
  
So Thorin decides for him. He pulls Bilbo's leaking length down from where it cleaves closely to the hobbit's abdomen, and into his mouth, taking Bilbo deep, before sliding up on the hard flesh till only the tip of Bilbo's prick remains in his mouth. Simultaneously, he sucks and strokes Bilbo . . . then once more puts increasing pressure on the tiny spot under his now ruthless finger.  
  
Soon, with another strangled cry, Bilbo floods Thorin's mouth with bittersweet heat—so much so that Thorin spills as much as he swallows.  
  
When at last Bilbo's body has stilled, and lays limp amongst the scattered pillows and covers, Thorin eases off Bilbo's slowly softening prick and wipes his mouth before crawling up the bed to kiss Bilbo thoroughly.  
  
Never have his hobbit's lips been sweeter.  
  
“Thorin . . . oh,  _Thorin_. . . .” Bilbo breathes between kisses, moaning softly and wrapping his arms and legs around Thorin's neck and hips, respectively. “That was . . . I don't even have the _words_  for what that was. . . .”  
  
“ _That_  was but a taste of what awaits us in the very near future, my love.” Thorin gently, unhurriedly thrusts his prick against Bilbo's somewhat softened one, gazing down into Bilbo's bright, still slightly-dazed eyes. “A mere  _taste_.”  
  
“Well. Let's have  _another taste_ , then,” Bilbo murmurs, grinning rather wickedly and drawing his legs up again, so high that they bracket Thorin's ribs.  
  
So high that Thorin's prick, on more thrusts than it doesn't, slides past his bollocks, to tease wetly against the patch of tender skin behind it, causing Bilbo to groan, low and loud. Blunt nails scrape their way up Thorin's shoulder and back, the pain of the welted—and occasionally broken—skin somehow adding sharp notes of pleasure to the amorphous cloud of heady bliss rapidly invading his body.  
  
Thorin shivers and practically bends Bilbo in half in his need to once more feel the heat and flutter of that tiny pucker against the tip of his cock. He thrusts more forcefully, grunting as he slides to that pucker and past it, and Bilbo clenches the muscles of his backside fast about Thorin's prick.  
  
As Bilbo had predicted, it isn't long before this hint of Promised Land has dragged Thorin's body to the edge, beyond grunts and groans, to stifled cries and bitten-lipped concentration as he chases a climax that threatens to undo him completely.  
  
Bilbo's lips and tongue and teeth tease Thorin's mouth, murmuring encouragement all the while as Thorin's prick slides between his cheeks, occasionally glancing off the place he desires to be more than he'd ever desired to be back at Erebor, in all his long years of exile. . . .  
  
“You are  _magnificent_ , my lord,” Bilbo whispers, his eyes a mere sparkle when they're this close to Thorin's. “You make me ever more desperate to have you in me . . . and yet I  _would_  wait for-ever to have you so. And still consider it an honor to be yours in any capacity.”  
  
“ _Bilbo_ —” Thorin manages to groan once more, loud and almost pained by his impending release. “Marry me— _marry me_ — _rule Erebor beside me_ —” he gasps, before briefly smothering what would be Bilbo's answer in a yearning, uncoordinated kiss.  
  
“Will—will you make l-love to me on our w-wedding night?” Bilbo asks hopefully, almost shyly, when Thorin releases his lips to look into his eyes. Bilbo's are sparkling with unshed tears, and Thorin kisses those damp, anxious eyes and the tip of Bilbo's nose.  
  
“Yes . . . I  _will_  have you on our wedding night, Bilbo Baggins—and  _every night_  thereafter . . . this I  _swear,_ ” Thorin promises, hanging on to the last of his coherent thoughts so as to hear whatever answer he receives. “ _Please_ , my love, say  _yes_. . . .”  
  
Bilbo goes utterly still for several moments, the tears spilling from his eyes as  _he_  now searches _Thorin's_. . . .  
  
Then he relaxes, laughing delightedly and clutching Thorin to him with a desperate strength that belies the light-hearted laughter. “ _Of course_ , Thorin.  _Yes_ , I'll marry you, my lord, my beloved . . . my silly king. Now  _come_ , before we're made even  _late-er_  for dinner.” With the anxiety and shyness gone, Bilbo's eyes are dancing and lovely . . . and so very  _loving._  
  
Thorin is quite taken aback by the  _love_  he sees therein.  
  
Bilbo kises him again, very softly, stroking Thorin's hair. “ _Let go_ , my love. It's alright.”  
  
And despite the distraction of Bilbo's love worn so plainly in his eyes, Thorin is helpless to do other than obey his hobbit in this, as with many other things. He buries his face in Bilbo's shoulder and, with more stifled cries, lets himself  _go_. . . .  
  


*

  
  
They are only half an hour late for dinner with Lord Elrond, who does not seem to mind.  
  
Dinner itself is a light-hearted affair, with Master Baggins as the sparkling heart of it, his conversation bright and amusing, charming and witty. Both Lord Elrond and Thorin spend a goodly portion of dinner chuckling and outright  _laughing_  at some jest of his. And Thorin, for his part, cannot take his eyes from his affianced, so lovely and shining is he. So seemingly in his element.  
  
And Bilbo also steals many glances at Thorin, his grins turning besotted and a bit silly when he does.  
  
Lord Elrond, if he notices the electric current and almost fraught interplay between them—and how could someone so perceptive  _not_  notice?—does not mention or call attention to it. Not even with one of his discreetly amused smiles.  
  
When dinner ends, Lord Elrond walks them out of his chambers, and smiles at them both, saying only: “You are both so merry of heart tonight, which gladdens me. I quite enjoyed your company, even more so than usual, and am only sorry that dinner could not last longer.”  
  
Bilbo snorts, but his smile is touched. “I'll wager you're sick of hearing  _me_  run my mouth, my lord. But I thank you for your kind words, and only hope I haven't bored you too terribly.” He bows deeply and Lord Elrond bows back.  
  
“You certainly have not, Master Baggins. I bid a good night. And you, King Thorin, I also wish a good night.  
  
“Thank you. And I wish you the same, Lord Elrond,” Thorin bows and receives one in return.  
  
Then he and Bilbo are turning to make their way to the royal wing, their hands automatically linking together when the door to Lord Elrond's chambers quietly shuts behind them.  
  
Once in the royal wing, without discussion, they take the turn-off to Thorin's chambers, walking slowly and sneaking shy, but eager smiles at each other.  
  
“What are you thinking, my love?” Thorin asks as they meander to his chambers. Bilbo smiles and  _hmms_.  
  
“Just thinking that everything seems to be . . . coming together quite nicely. As if things are finally starting to go our way.” Bilbo leans on Thorin's arm and gazes up at him happily. “I feel as if . . . we're  _invincible_. As if nothing can touch us or harm us.”  
  
Thorin smiles and would agree, but then he remembers . . .  _Azog_ , and the hunt for him in which Thorin will  _very soon_  be engaged. That he must, indeed,  _tell_  Master Baggins about that hunt.  
  
And he senses that Bilbo will be less than thrilled with the notion. And less than pleased with _Thorin_. . . .  
  
 _Perhaps I should find some way to embark on this hunt without telling him—but without lying to him outright . . . though how I should manage such a thing is beyond my limited skill as a dissembler._  Thorin glances away from Bilbo's wide smile and clears his throat.  
  
“Perhaps you are right, Master Baggins,” Thorin temporizes. And nothing more is said until they're within viewing distance of Thorin's chambers, outside of which are three figures: the two night guards, standing stolidly to either side of the doors, and a pacing, very agitated-looking Kili, whose hair is unbraided and wild, and whose clothing is quite askew.  
  
As they get closer, Kili spots them and ceases his pacing to instead approach them, already wound up, and, oh . . . Thorin knows what his nephew—tactless and lacking in discretion when upset—is here to speak to him about.  
  
“Kili,” he begins, holding out his hands and attempting to head off his nephew before he can speak. It's no good.  
  
“You can't be  _serious_  about asking Tauriel come with you to hunt down that monster!” Kili bursts out as he draws near Thorin and Bilbo, who looks confused, and turns that confused gaze on Thorin. Thorin does not dare meet it for long, and looks away. Turns a stern look on his nephew.  
  
“Kili, now is  _not_  the time. We will speak of this lat—”  
  
“She told me  _herself_ , Uncle! That she's likely to be asked to come with you as a scout and guide, since she was the one who spotted Azog, and—”  
  
“ _Azog_ ,” Bilbo breathes, the color draining from his face so rapidly and markedly, Thorin can see it even from the corner of his eye. Can feel the almost instanteous chill of Bilbo's hand before it drops away from his own.  
  
Restraining his temper and stepping close to Kili, wearing his coldest, most quelling face and using his most commanding voice—not that either of those things ever has much of an effect on Kili—Thorin puts a heavy hand on his nephew's shoulder. “That's  _enough_ , Kili. I said we will discuss this  _later._  Perhap during the morning meeting.”  
  
Kili frowns, shrugging off Thorin's hand and looking as if he would continue to force the matter . . . then his eyes dart over Thorin's shoulder, in Bilbo's direction, and the color drains from his own face, rather alarmingly.  
  
“Oh . . . er. Right,” he says, taking a step back and shooting Thorin an apologetic look. Then a worried one at Bilbo . . . though he can't seem to manage to hold it for very long, at this particular moment. So devastated and devastating must Bilbo's gaze be, Kili's eyes almost immediately tick back to Thorin's. “At the morning meeting, that's—yes, thank you, Uncle. I'll see you then. Er. Good night. And to you, too, Master Boggins!”  
  
And with that, Kili's gone, as if he'd never been . . . except for the piercing, intent gaze Thorin can feel directed at him fom Bilbo's vicinity.  
  
“What was Kili on about, Thorin . . . Tauriel spotting Azog?” he asks quietly, in a voice so even, that that in itself is disturbing. “Is this . . . true? When did it happen? Where? And  _why did you not tell me?_ ”  
  
There's a world of hurt in that last question, and Thorin winces, extending his hand to Bilbo, momentarily afraid when Bilbo does not take it . . . but take it, he eventually does, and Thorin squeezes it, pulling the hobbit even with him. Yet he still does not meet Bilbo's questioning gaze.  
  
“This is not the place for such a discussion, my love. Come,” he says, kissing Bilbo's chilly hand and drawing him hence. The guards open the doors for them and Thorin takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the second toughest discussion he's ever had in his life.  
  
But it still looks to be a damned sight better than  _the_  toughest.  
  


*

  
  
When Thorin has built up the fire in the main room, and Bilbo has been sitting in front of it for several minutes, shivering—as hard as if he'd been outside all evening—Thorin begins to speak.  
  
He tells Bilbo of his own quadrupling of the bounty on Azog's head, and still receiving no results, not even a hint of Azog's whereabouts. He tells of finally deciding, several weeks ago—just after the commissioning of Bilbo's sled—to hunt Azog with his own resources. Resources that had turned up the same amount of information and leads the bounty had, which is to say: none.  
  
Then Thorin speaks of the events of earlier this day . . . of Dwalin coming to him in Bilbo's chambers with the news of the elven maid Tauriel's discovery . . . and of his and Dwalin's plan to track and destroy the pack of warg-riders.  
  
Azog included.  
  
When the telling is done, Thorin sighs and sits back in his chair. “And that is . . .  _everything_.”  
  
Bilbo, hunched forward, arms wrapped around himself, still shivering, stares into the fire with an unblinking gaze.  
  
“And if Kili hadn't let the cat out of the bag, would you ever have told me?” Bilbo turns that unblinking gaze on Thorin, who flinches back from the near-lifeless quality of it. “Would you have told me before you went off, possibly to die in the wild, far from me, what it was you sought? Or would you have lied? Would you have simply let me think what I wanted to think without correcting my assumptions?  _Would you have mentioned_ at all _that it was_ Azog _you were hunting_?”  
  
“My love—”  
  
“Tell me, Thorin!”  
  
Sighing, Thorin covers his face with his hands for a few moments. “I would have,” he says at last, “though I considered doing those very things you mentioned. But in the end, I really only wanted a proper time and way to tell you, for I knew you would take this news . . . hard.”  
  
“I see.” Bilbo doesn't sound as if he truly does, but Thorin does not mention this aloud. “And . . . would you have married me  _before_  or  _after_  you ran off to get yourself killed at Azog's hands?”  
  
Bilbo's voice shakes as he asks, and Thorin has to look away from that steady, naked gaze once more.  
  
“I . . . would have liked to present his head to you as a wedding present,” he mumbles, realizing, in the saying, just how . . . grisly and morbid such a macabre present would be on such a happy day as the day they were at last joined in the eyes of Mahal, and Thorin's forebears.  
  
“So you . . . you proposed to me, knowing full well that there's a chance you may not come back from such an adventure, and that your proposal could very well be a promise that is  _never_ fulfilled,” Bilbo says angrily, but tears are now spilling down his still-pale cheeks. Thorin shakes his head quickly. “That I could wind up a widower before I'm even  _married_ —”  
  
“ _No_ , my love, for I mean to have his head this time,  _no matter what_.” Holding out his hand to Bilbo once more, Thorin is nonetheless  _not_  surprised when  _this time_ , Bilbo  _does not_  take it. “And there is more to  _us_ , to  _you and I_ , than some damned ceremony! What matters is  _us_. In our hearts, we are  _already_  married, are we not?  _Bilbo_?” Thorin is  _extremely_  concerned when Bilbo doesn't answer for more than a minute, his gaze once more turned to the fire. The hobbit shrugs almost indifferently.  
  
“If that were so, my king, then I would mean more to you than your quest for vengeance, and you would let Azog rot in whatever cave he's hiding in, and stay here, with me.”  
  
“Bilbo, I cannot simply leave him out there to wreak havoc—”  
  
“But neither must  _you_  be the one to personally see him dead. You have guards and warriors for that. And yet I see that that did not even occur to you.” Bilbo snorts miserably. “I can see that the idea of letting your guard handle him without you is as foreign an idea to you as growing an elvish guarden in the Great Hall!”  
  
Thorin takes a deep breath yet again, though it does not help—does not calm the turmoil, the roiling mix of anger, sadness, fear, and anxiety that unsettles his mind and his heart. “Bilbo . . . after everything he's done to my fathers and my  _people_ —to  _you_ —I cannot let him be stopped by anyone else! His doom  _must_  come at  _my_  hands!”  
  
Bilbo shakes his head, wiping at his eyes and his cheeks impatiently. “And it . . . means so much to you, this vengeance? More to you than being here, with me?  _Safe_?”  
  
“It's not a—a matter of either/or, Bilbo Baggins!” Thorin says defensively, and Bilbo snorts again.  
  
“What if I'm  _making_  it a matter of either/or?” Off Thorin's confused silence, Bilbo looks up again, his eyes red with more than reflected firelight. “What if I'm asking you to choose between your love for me . . . and your revenge upon Azog?”  
  
Thorin goes cold. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Finally, after several minutes of repeating these actions, sounds come out. Sounds that he does not mean to  _say_ , and certainly does not want Bilbo to  _hear_ , but sounds that he cannot  _stop_. “How can you bear to make me choose, Bilbo?”  
  
And Thorin does not miss the flicker in Bilbo's eyes, a subtle change no more drastic than the sudden breaking of his love's tender heart.  
  
“How can  _you_  bear forcing me to ask in the first place, Thorin?” Bilbo whispers, more tears running down his face as he looks away and stands up slowly, as if pained. Thorin stands with him, not knowing what he means to do, or say, but knowing he  _must_  do or say  _something_. . . .  
  
But Bilbo is hurrying unsteadily past him, toward the antechamber between the main room and the doors to the hall. When Thorin catches up to him and puts a hand on his tense shoulder to stop him from going, Bilbo shrugs it off, but turns to face him, expectantly.  
  
“My love,” Thorin begins softly, and Bilbo glares at him.  
  
“You've made your choice. You have no right to call me that, anymore.”  
  
“I have the  _only_  right.” Thorin gazes stonily back, aware that he's only making matters worse, but unable to help himself. “And it is  _my mountain_ , do not forget, Master Baggins. I can do whatever I wish.”  
  
“And you  _are_ , aren't you,  _King Thorin_?” Bilbo smiles coldly, but shakily. And there are tears in his eyes once more. “You'll just have to do it without  _me_.”  
  
“Save me from hard-headed, stubborn hobbits—I'm doing this  _for you_!” Thorin declares, half-heartedly reaching out to pull Bilbo closer for an embrace or a kiss—for when have either of them ever been able to stand against the other's touch?—but Bilbo jerks away hard, making for the door again.  _Quickly._  “I'm doing this so that you will at last feel completely safe!”  
  
Bilbo barks a short, startled laugh before flinging the left door open. “Don't fool yourself,  _King Thorin_. The only person you're doing this for is  _you_!”  
  
And with that, the door is slamming shut behind Bilbo. So hard, that both doors rock in their sturdy frames.  
  
Thorin is left standing in his antechamber quite alone, the echoes of their first argument—and what feels, alarmingly, like their  _last_ —echoing in the air around him.  
  
Torn between the bone-deep need to go after Bilbo, to simply  _be_  wherever his angry, but no doubt  _hurting_  hobbit is, and the need to maintain what little of his pride remains—the King Under the Mountain does not go grovelling after  _anyone_  . . . even a hobit that he loves more than life itself—Thorin eventually turns back into his chambers, convinced that Bilbo will come back to him—will see  _reason_  . . . and  _come back to him_. . . .  
  
He is absolutely  _convinced_  . . . or so he tells himself, staring at the door and more that stands between himself and his precious burglar.  
  
Eventually he storms back into his chambers—kicks his own chair into the huge main fireplace, not lingering to watch it burn—to his bedroom, where he tears off his clothes and throws himself into bed, muttering and glaring at no one and nothing but his own ceiling.  
  
And when the clock in the main room has chimed six in the morning, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain is still laying abed: angry, awake . . . and quite alone.


	20. Dawn of a New Age 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paradigms shift, and Ori is, apparently, always right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Has anyone else noticed that the shorter my summaries are, the longer my chapters? And the inverse is also true? Weird.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

At the urgent meeting held by Thorin's Council on the second of Thorin's two days off, he can barely focus on the  _discussion_ —read:  _arguments . . . . plural_ —at hand.  
  
The discussion largely regards the soundness of Dwalin's plan, and whether or not Thorin should go on the hunt in-person.  
  
“It's the only way our trap'll spring, at all!” Dwalin finally snarls at the room in general, most especially his brother. Balin snarls right back.  
  
“He is our  _king_ , not bait!”  
  
“ _Our king_  is the only bait that Azog will  _take_ , for this is no simple orc, to be deceived by anything less than Thorin's very presence. It takes a king to capture a king,” Dwalin insists, pounding the great oval table with his fist. Next to him, on his right, Ori records everything they say for posterity (though these particular records will be sealed until after Thorin's reign, unless some great need  _un_ seals them).  
  
A few times during the course of the meeting, Thorin has felt the scribe's eyes upon him, curious and considering, and at those times, Thorin, who almost never colors under the scrutiny of another, blushes, and keeps his eyes firmly on the table in front of him, and his face decidedly impassive.  
  
He knows that Bilbo and Ori have grown close over the winter, and can only imagine what Bilbo might have related to the scribe about their relationship, period, let alone the argument they'd had last night. . . .  
  
Thorin sighs heavily and all eyes turn to him in the sudden and unfortuitous silence that had momentarily preceded that sigh.  
  
Glancing up and meeting every eye upon him—even Ori's strangely commisserative and knowing gaze—Thorin decides to end the arguing once and for all, and thus end the meeting, which had been going for several hours at this point.  
  
“I'm going, no matter what. Azog  _will_  die by my hand. On this I will  _not_  yield,” he says quietly, but  _quite_  audibly into the silence. Which is then only broken a minute later by Balin.  
  
“What if it is  _Azog_  who walks away from this fight the victor? What then, Thorin? What of Erebor, with her king dead?” Balin asks softly, in that calmly reasonable way of his, and Dori agrees, ever one to take Balin's side in arguments about law or business, agrees, though he and everyone else glances at Fili, who's staring down at his hands on the table and muttering to himself.  
  
Kili—who is not pleased that his elven maid will be acting as scout and guide for Thorin's troop of dwarves—elbows his older brother.  
  
When Fili looks up, he, too, meets every eye, beginning and ending with Master Bofur's. The other dwarf is sitting next to Bifur, and directly across the table from Fili. His eyes are steady on Fili's and steady _ing_.  
  
“I suppose that's what he's got an heir and a spare for,” Fili murmurs into the second silence, smiling just a little and elbowing Kili back. Kili crosses his arms and slouches back in his chair, no doubt still thinking of his Tauriel. “Isn't that right, Uncle?”  
  
Thorin sighs again and attempts to reassure his nephew. His  _Council_. “It will not come to that. I _will_  kill Azog, and return triumphant. Dwalin's plan  _will work_ —”  
  
“And how do you  _know that_?” Balin demands intently, leaning forward and ignoring both Dwalin's and Ori's glares.  
  
“Because it  _must_ ,” Thorin says simply, and in saying, realizes it to be true. Dwalin's plan  _will_ work, because it  _must_. “Continue your pointless bickering, if you will. But  _I_  will hear no more from the Council on it, unless it has something to add that will enhance this plan.”  
  
And with that, Thorin finds himself standing up and skirting the left side of the table and its occupants. As his makes his way to the door, Ori catches his eye and smiles encouragingly.  
  
Pretending not to notice, Thorin merely keeps walking, glad that for once, he doesn't have the robe dragging after him or the damned  _crown_  listing every which way on his head.  
  


*

  
  
Lord Elrond opens his door almost immediately after Thorin knocks, seeming unsurprised to see the king of Erebor—looking harried and miserable—at his doorstep, once more barging past him into his quarters.  
  
“You are . . . upset,” Lord Elrond says mildly, closing the doors after a rather sardonic moment has passed. He turns to face Thorin, who's stopped in the middle of the antechamber—his manners haven't, in his desperation,  _entirely_  deserted him—arms crossed over his chest.  
  
“Yes.” Even admitting such—and even to Lord Elrond—is not easy for Thorin. But he does it without hesitation or beating around the bush.  
  
“I see. And this no doubt has something to do with the spotting of Azog the Defiler near Eryn Lasgalen.” Lord Elrond quirks an eyebrow in question. Thorin rolls his eyes—how the elven lord found out? Well, Bilbo is the most likely culprit—and snorts.  
  
“No doubt.” Turning to follow Lord Elrond deeper into his chambers, Thorin sighs. “Master Baggins is . . .  _upset_  with my decision to go myself and slay that vile creature.”  
  
Lord Elrond's sure step falters ever so slightly . . . but then he's leading Thorin to the hearth and the chairs before it as if nothing happened.  
  
“How upset is  _upset_?” Lord Elrond asks, gesturing for Thorin to sit, then sitting himself when Thorin settles in the dwarf-sized chair.  
  
“ _Very_ ,” Thorin says tersely, then sighs again. “He . . . left me.”  
  
“I find that hard to believe, son of Thrain.”  
  
“Are you calling me a liar, then?” Thorin glares at Lord Elrond, who merely stares back at him. “Or implying I'm too stupid to know when I've been tossed aside like so much refuse?”  
  
“Certainly not. I'm simply wondering if you—either of you—are capable of seeing clearly or dealing with each other rationally when Azog the Defiler is thrown into the mix.” Lord Elrond turns his gaze to the fire and purses his lips. “I, myself, have been worried for you both since I heard this morning that the Defiler had been spotted.”  
  
“Worry for Master Baggins I can understand, but for me?” Thorin follows Lord Elrond's gaze to the fire and sees nothing there but his own simmering rage and desire for revenge. “My plans are coming together. Soon, I will have Azog's head on a pike, and I will at last be worthy to—”  
  
But Thorin falls silent, realizing that his yearning to be worthy of Bilbo Baggins is now pointless, since the hobbit has left him. . . .  
  
“Soon, I will have avenged those who've cried out for vengeance . . . in this world and the next,” he finishes finally. After a few minutes of silence, he can feel Lord Elrond's piercing gaze on him.  
  
“There are many things I could say—some of them quite eloquent and exemplative—to advise you. But I see you are circling the edges of despair, and so I will say, first and foremost: You must put aside this lack of esteem in which you hold yourself—must stop trying to be  _worthy_  of Master Baggins' love, for if you keep trying, you never  _will_  be worthy in your own eyes. Love so deep cannot be earned, only accepted.  
  
“You must put aside your desire for vengeance, or else put aside your hunt for the Defiler, for not only will vengeance cost you the one you love, it will cost you your  _life_. If you search for justice, then justice you will find. If you seek only revenge, you will find only death.  
  
“You  _must also_  find Master Baggins and, as best as you may, explain your rationale to him. You must let him do the same. And finally, you must  _apologize_  to him. And allow him to apologize to _you_.  
  
“These things you  _must_  do, King Thorin, or see all that you wish for and dream of come to naught.”  
  
Thorin, who has been staring at Lord Elrond, mouth agape, since the first mention of  _vengeance_ , can only continue to stare. And Lord Elrond gazes calmly back.  
  
“How,” Thorin starts, his face forming into a scowl. “How can you ask me to put aside my vengeance? After all that Azog has  _done_ —”  
  
“ _I_  am  _not_  the one who would ask this of you, son of Thrain,” Lord Elrond interrupts to say, a tad sharply. But not as sharp and piercing as that  _gaze_. “And one does not need  _vengeance_  to fuel a desire to see  _justice_  done.  _Do_  you wish to see justice done?”  
  
Thorin growls. “Of  _course_  I do.”  
  
“Then you cannot face the Defiler with a longing for vengeance obscuring your thoughts and clouding your heart. Nor can you yet face Master Baggins. You  _must first_  put aside vengeance for both your sakes—purge it from your heart as much as you can. And once this is done, you will not only find Master Baggins waiting for you—hurting, but waiting—but you will find that delivering the justice that is needed will be easier, without the rage that has been sustaining you—” here Thorin starts, to hear this echo of his own earlier thoughts in the elven lord's mouth “—and the revenge that would undo you.”  
  
Shaking his head angrily, but confused, as well, Thorin grits out: “I don't understand. If and when justice and vengeance coincide, then what does it matter which one becomes my reason for acting?”  
  
Lord Elrond's dark brows rise gently.  
  
“King Thorin, that is a question that any king worth his weight in salt—yourself included, I hope—must answer for himself. No one can  _tell him_  what it is, only remind him when he has forgotten, or point him toward it when he does not yet know.” Lord Elrond inclines his head and turns to the fire once more. “Aside from the fact that vengeance clouds the mind and dulls the reflexes, it taints honor as blood taints drinking water. For just as you would avenge yourself on Azog by killing him, so he once avenged himself upon you by raping Master Baggins.”  
  
Thorin sits back again, completely thrown.  
  
“It is not the same thing,” Thorin says through numb lips when he is able to once more speak, shaking his head yet again.  
  
“Is it not?” Lord Elrond is the one to snort, now. “He took a life you loved, and you took his arm. You took his arm, and he took the innocence and peace of mind of someone you love. He took the innocence and peace of mind of someone you love, and now you would take his life.”  
  
“And that will end it once and for all!”  
  
“Will it?” Lord Elrond sighs for a third time. “When you realize—and this will be sooner rather than later—that justice has  _not_  been served by the pursuit of vengeance, and that it, with Azog's demise, can now  _never_  be served, what then? How will you repair the glaring wrong that is left behind? Or, in the growing likelihood that  _you_  lose your life in this battle, would you rather give up the life you and Master Baggins would have had for petty vengeance that satisfies none, with you dead and Master Baggins widowed? Or would you rather die knowing you have advanced the cause of justice in this world?”  
  
“I would rather not die  _at all_!” Thorin exclaims, and Lord Elrond does something Thorin has never seen an elf do before: he shrugs.  
  
“Neither would any of us. Yet sometimes . . . we do not get that choice. But  _you_ , son of Thrain, _do_. You have two paths before you: to give in to your selfish need for revenge and go off to what is almost certainly your death. Or to pursue Azog the Defiler on a mission for justice . . . and to what is almost certainly your death. But in the end, your death does not matter greatly.”  
  
“It  _doesn't_?”  
  
“In the grander scheme of things, no. What  _matters_  is the spirit in which  _Master Baggins_  thinks you are undertaking this mission. For the love you share has the potential, almost greater than any I have ever witnessed, to last beyond death, and the life after that, and the life after that. But _here and now_  is where it must be cemented.  _Here and now_  is where you must win him, if you would  _keep_  him.”  
  
And with this, Lord Elrond falls silent, almost broodingly so, staring once more into the flames.  
  
Just as Thorin would speak—to say  _what_ , he does not know—Lord Elrond takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Even I cannot Foresee all ends, son of Thrain. For I would Look into your many possible futures and tell you what I See therein . . . but I See only a little. Only . . . a great battle between good and evil . . . and a fell injury and a death. To which these ends fall, I cannot say. Only that if you let vengeance cloud your mind—distract you and  _rule_  you—it is, without having to Foresee it,  _you_  who will die, and your precious burglar be left, forever grieving and forever alone.”  
  
As if doused by cold river-water, Thorin's rage—the  _sustaining rage_ —that'd kept him going long after another would have sat down and died, is suddenly drowned out by the thought of leaving Bilbo Baggins alone . . . forever in grief, thinking that his love had left him for something as cold and surely fleeting as the satisfied vengeance.  
  
And he does not know where hobbits go when they die—perhaps to the [Ever Green Fields](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1071396), where Lady Yavanna rules everafter in pastoral splendor . . . yes, such an end sounds fitting for the folk of the Shire—but when he thinks such melancholy thoughts as  _my love and I will eventually be separated by death_ , he has often surmised that either he might be allowed to sneak into those Ever Green Fields every once and a while—or that his hobbit might find his quiet, unnoticed way into the Halls of Waiting . . . and they could, in some way, no matter how brief or sporadic, be together even in death.  
  
He's never stopped to think  _beyond death_  and into the  _next life_.  
  
And he's  _certainly_  never stopped to think that  _anything_ , even  _Mahal_ , could destroy the love he and Bilbo share.  
  
Nothing could  _ever_  part them for longer than it takes for one or the other of them to find a way _back_  to the other.  
  
But now, he finds out that their love is not yet as sure as all that. That there's still a chance they might be parted—and forever. Not because Thorin will hunt Azog— _must hunt_  Azog—but because Thorin will hunt him in the wrong spirit. And may thus  _die_  a less than honorable death.  
  
And who is to say that should he stain his honor so, and break the heart that loves him true, that he would even join his forebears? Who is to say he would not wind up in the Abyss . . . his only company the many hundreds of orcs and goblins he's responsible for sending there?  
  
Hanging his head and swallowing his pride—such a bitter pill, indeed—the way he had when Dwalin had shown him the folly of his plans to run straight at Azog's trap, Thorin sighs.  
  
“You are . . . right,” he whispers, clutching at the arms of the chair, but carefully, so as not to receive a splinter in his palm. “But I have lived with the desire for vengeance for so long . . . I am not certain how to go on without it.  
  
Lord Elrond turns a gentle smile on him. “Part of growing up and growing older is finding acceptable substitutes for bad habits. Pride and your desire for vengeance on those who have wronged you are  _your_  worst habits. Your worst character traits. You must find acceptable substitutes for both.”  
  
Thorin barks a brief, unhappy laugh. “With what could I substitute those things, so that I don't feel their lack and begin to back-slide?”  
  
Lord Elrond's smile turns cryptic. “That is not for me to tell you. But find these substitutes, you must. And they will be the truest sword and shield in your arsenal.”  
  
Thorin snorts again. “Platitudes, Lord ELrond.”  
  
“Certitudes, King Thorin.”  
  
“Pride may yet be successfully replaced with its opposite, but a desire for vengeance? What can substitute that? For I will not  _forgive_  Azog's crimes! I  _can_ not!”  
  
“Forgiveness is not the opposite of a desire for vengeance, son of Thrain.”  
  
“Then what  _is_?”  
  
But even as Thorin asks this, he knows the answer. Perhaps  _has_  known it all along. . . .  
  
Lord Elrond's smile widens.  
  


*

  
  
Not long hence, he is exactly where he'd spent a whole night and most of the morning convincing himself he would not go—for was he not a king? Was it not his prerogative to be right even when he was wrong?—knocking on Bilbo Baggins' door, eventually leaning his forehead against it as if he can will his lover to open the door, when five minutes of knocking doesn't do the trick.  
  
“Bilbo, love . . . it is Thorin,” he calls in a voice that's low, but carrying, nonetheless. Then wonders if announcing himself has really helped matters. Would knowing that it's Thorin knocking—as opposed to Ori or perhaps Master Bofur—incline Bilbo, if he's in, to answer his door?  
  
Doubtful.  
  
“Open the door, my love . . .  _please_ ,” Thorin calls, suddenly not caring who in this relatively unpopulated corridor hears him.  
  
But there's still no answer.  
  
Unwilling to wait any longer, Thorin opens the doors to Bilbo's chambers.  
  
If the hobbit is indeed  _in_ —and Thorin can sense that he is . . . as usual, he can  _feel_  Bilbo's presence nearby—then he  _will_  speak with Thorin.  
  
Or, barring that, at least listen to what  _Thorin_  has to say.  
  
 _Whatever that is_ , Thorin thinks, trying to prepare some speech or even just his half of a conversation convincing Bilbo to forgive him—to convince the hobbit to  _come back to him_ —and accept that this doom that lies between him, Thorin, and Azog, is fated. That one or the other of them will die because of it, and at the other's hands.  
  
For this is the way it must be. Thorin's very blood demands it, just as it demands that, king or not, he make things right between himself and Bilbo. For it will not do without either Bilbo's heart or knowing that Azog is forever  _done with_.  
  
It  _will not_  choose between those two.  
  
Perhaps  _cannot_.  
  
Stepping into Bilbo's antechamber, Thorin closes the doors behind him.  
  


*

  
  
Having found Bilbo's chambers to be empty, Thorin finally sits on the foot of Bilbo's bed—the hearths in the bedchamber and the main chamber are cold—suddenly very tired, and buries his face in his hands for a few moments.  
  
He'd been certain that, despite the lack of an answer or other response, that Bilbo was present. Part of him is  _still_  certain, shrilling at him that he needs to search the chambers once again, for Bilbo  _is here_.  
  
Thorin has always been able to tell when Bilbo Baggins is nearby. He doesn't know how, but he's used that sense of the hobbit to both find and keep him safe on several occasions. And even to let him know when the hobbit needs him most.  
  
(Suffice it to say Bilbo has never been able to sneak up on him.)  
  
But for once, it seems to have steered him wrong, for Bilbo is nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Of course he's not. Why would he linger here, knowing this would be the first place I'd come looking for him,” Thorin mutters to himself with a sigh, running his hands up and through his hair. “He probably wishes nothing less than to see me right now. Or possibly ever again.”  
  
And even as part of Thorin rages against that, the unfairness of it and the hobbit's complete lack of understanding—and it's foolish of Thorin, is it not, to expect a  _hobbit_  to understand  _dwarvish_ motives with little to no explanation, is it not?—there's a rather large and vocal part of him that's starting to see things from Bilbo's point of view.  
  
Why  _would_  a hobbit who's only recently ever witnessed the need for fighting; the drive for vengeance; and the bitterness of honor in the face of defeat . . . and even in success—why would such a person be happy that someone he loves is marching off to small-scale war?  
  
Especially against something such as  _Azog the Defiler_ , who's already bested Thorin once before? And to Bilbo's detriment?  
  
Why would Bilbo understand that? Why would he, having only had a secondhand taste of such, understand the burning in Thorin's blood and brain and heart for  _retribution_? For an accounting? For . . . a cleansing of their small part of Arda by ridding it of something as vile as Azog?  
  
“Oh, my love,” Thorin mutters, shaking his head. “How could I possibly explain all of this to you—you, whose heart is so pure and forgiving—who has tasted the bitter draught of defeat in battle, and rapine by an enemy so vile, history will never forget his name . . . and yet has never feel the burning desire for vengeance? How can I explain that his very  _existence_ , the unjustness of it, galls and burns me—that I will  _never_  be able to rest, even in your arms, until he is no more? How can I explain that until the day he draws his last breath, I will never even be  _worthy_  of your arms or your love, or your hand in marriage? That were your parents alive, it would be within their rights to demand as part of our marriage contract that our union not even happen until I present them with proof that the one who violated their kin—on my watch—was dead?  
  
“How can I tell you that it truly was  _not_  a choice between your love and my desire for vengeance . . . but that my desire for vengeance was  _because_  of my love for you, and for my fathers? Would you understand such a dimension to love? I think not. I think not. For you love purely, sweetly, and with a heart that, despite its lingering shadows, is still bright and shining.  _My heart_ , alas, is neither pure, nor bright and shining. It is, sometimes, nothing  _but_  shadows. Except when you are near. When you are near, your heart—your  _love_  shines a light directly into mine, driving away shadows and dark thoughts. You make me wish to give you everything that is mine to give. My kingdom, my gold, my allegiance . . . my very  _life_.”  
  
Thorin pauses in the somehow . . .  _listening_  silence. For it certainly feels as if he's being  _heard_  by . . .  _something_. Nothing he could put a name to. Nothing he should feel compelled to  _explain_ himself to—the King Under the Mountain explains himself to no one, except, Thorin would tell Master Baggins, if he could, the love of his life—but compelled he feels. As if it would make a difference.  
  
Sighing again, Thorin stands up heavily, looking around the cozy, not-quite-cluttered chamber. He remembers when Bilbo shared  _his_  chambers, and they'd looked much like this . . . comfortable, lived-in, welcoming. Thorin had  _always_  felt  _at-home_  when he stepped into them, whether or not Bilbo was there waiting, which he almost always was.  
  
It's not like now, where his chambers feel as empty as his nights without Bilbo in his arms.  
  
“If I could, Master Baggins, I would tell you that my love for you increases exponentially with each passing day, until you are all I think about. And the more I love you, the more I want to destroy anything that ever has or ever would hurt you. And the more Azog's continued existence eats at me. And now, at last, I have a chance to  _fix_  that. To end, for you, a nightmare which only happened in the first place  _because_  of my desire for vengeance. So no. No,” Thorin turns a full circle, trying to pinpoint that sensation of being  _heard_ —and  _watched . . . intently_ —but he cannot. For it feels as if whatever is doing the listening is doing it from farther away than it had mere moments ago. But Thorin goes on, in the vain hope that somehow, it is  _Bilbo_  who is hearing him and seeing him, despite not being there. “I have not—I realize, and perhaps too late—chosen vengeance over love. It is not vengeance that I wish, anymore, for vengeance is a costly thing and I find that I'm tired of paying—or seeing those I care about pay—for such a worthless and brief satisfaction. No. What I seek is the  _opposite of vengeance_. I seek  _justice_. The righting of a wrong that's gone on for far too long. I will slay the King of Gundabad and his warg-riders. I will make an example of them that the world will heed, and never again will the might of Erebor or Durin's Folk be questioned or challenged. Never again will any under my care suffer such hurts as have been dealt so  _un_ justly to you. I will see wiped away from Arda a pestilence. A wound that defaces even as it poisons. I will not merely see  _you avenged_ , but will see  _justice done_  for those who have been so wronged by that monster. And with his death, will come the prevention of the future evil he would have done.  
  
“I realize I cannot save you from what was done to you . . . but I can prevent it from happening to others. And since I am able . . . I must  _try_.”  
  
Turning, at last, to the open door to the chamber, Thorin nods to himself when he digs deep within to find that sustaining rage that'd burned so long, and so clear and brightly, it'd disturbed his sleep, not so very long ago, torturing him with near-constant relivings of Azog's violation of Bilbo, and prodding him to get revenge—not for Bilbo . . . at least not  _only_ —for himself. For Azog had once more touched what was  _Thorin's_ , even though Thorin hadn't known at that time that Bilbo was, indeed,  _his_.  
  
 _Was_  being the operative word, now that Bilbo will not—perhaps  _cannot_  understand why Thorin must see to it himself that Azog dies. Why he cannot be willing to throw away the lives of those who serve him on this undertaking—justice—necessity—whatever it is, when all is said and done, without being willing to risk himself. Petty vengeance would throw lives and coins at Azog forever, until all lives and coins were gone. But  _justice_  . . . justice requires the presence and touch of a  _king_.  
  
And having witnessed Azog kill the previous king, then eventually go on to rape an innocent—and probably not the first, though thankfully the first and only  _Thorin_  has ever witnessed—Thorin can finally stand up and be the one to mete out justice, and take responsibility for that meting out.  
  
“Within three days, Dwalin's dwarves will be ready to move. It has been decided. And I will ride with them, to do justice on the King of Mount Gundabad. I doubt you will forgive me in that brief span—if  _ever_ ,” Thorin tells Bilbo's empty chambers. “But this I  _must_  do. For more than just your sake or mine. I  _must_  see this done. Perhaps when I return . . .  _if_  I return . . . you will be able to look past what you see as my stubbornness and lust for vengeance, and . . . if nothing else, remain my steadfast companion. For I value you more than I can express, and if I cannot have you as my consort, then I would at least have you as my . . . friend. My friend. My bright light . . . chasing away shadows and dark thoughts.”  
  
Thorin smiles to himself, wryl, at this humble swallowing of his truest desires. Of his  _pride_.  _But then, why do things by half-measures, now? Neither of us ever has._  
  
“Oh, who am I fooling? I would have nothing less than  _you here, by my side, for eternity_. I would have you never leave me, though I fear you must, in your view, do so. For you believe that I don't love you more than I love the rage and desire for vengeance that has kept me going for such a large part of my life. But that rage and desire has guttered in the face of possibly losing you forever, my love. It no longer controls me, or moves me to act. Not when I am so suddenly and constantly reminded of its terrible  _cost_. I desire nothing more, now, than for this hunt to be over, Azog to be on his pyre, and you in my arms for all time. . . .”  
  
Smiling bitterly at such a hopeless fantasy—for ever has his heart's dearest-held desire been without hope, and never more so than  _now_ , with the way he and Bilbo had parted the previous night—Thorin stalks toward the door, his mind already distant. “I suppose I had best stop talking to myself and either find you, or find some way to keep myself occupied until tomorrow morning.”  
  
And Thorin's half-way across the main chamber, wondering if he dares try the library—for he would rather  _not_  confront Bilbo in front of a gaggle of prurient librarians, but he  _is_  rather desperate to speak with . . . to simply  _see_  Bilbo—when there's a soft sound directly behind him, almost like a footfall. Like  _Bilbo's_  footfall, for Thorin has become very familiar with the barely audible sound of his hobbit's fuzzy feet.  
  
Thorin is in the midst of turning, Bilbo's name on his lips, when he gets two armsful of  _very_ clingy hobbit. For Bilbo has appeared out of nowhere and flung himself into Thorin's instantly open arms, holding on tighter than tight, as if he fears drowning without Thorin to buoy him. He's speaking a mile a minute, his breath hot and humid in Thorin's ear:  
  
“—was right. He was absolutely  _right_  as he always is. I got upset—I was  _hurt_ —by what you said and I ran away before I could be hurt more, instead of staying and risking it for the chance to understand where you were coming from. I tried to shut you out of my mind and heart because it hurt too much to have you there, knowing you were going to run off into the wild to hunt  _him_ and that I might . . . that I might  _lose you_.” Bilbo squeezes a still-shocked, but also tightly-embracing Thorin even tighter. “But he said that whatever your reasons, whichever of us was right or wrong, if either of us, it came down to letting you march off, possibly to your doom, thinking that I no longer love you. That I don't value my own hurt pride above  _my_  love for  _you_. And I  _don't_.” He leans back just enough to look into Thorin's eyes, his own wet and red and. . . .  
  
Lovely.  
  
“He was right. This fight is one you were meant for—one you must face whether or not I stay with you, whether or not I pretend I don't still love you to distraction. So there's no point in leaving or pretending, is there? Not when it only causes us both misery,” Bilbo whispers, glancing down guiltily for a few moments, before meeting Thorin's gaze again, his own hopeful and apologetic. “I'm so sorry, Thorin. Sorry I ran away from you, sorry that I hurt you, sorry that I said what I said, the way I said it.”  
  
Thorin, completely flabbergasted—he really had checked  _every_  chamber for Bilbo and not found any sign of him—by both his hobbit's sudden appearance and sudden change of mind and heart, can only hug Bilbo close again.  
  
“And  _I_  am sorry for letting the need for vengeance rule my actions and decisions for so long. Sorry that I didn't go after you last night and try my best to explain—”  
  
Bilbo laughs, leaning back again to kiss Thorin soundly. He tastes of his usual sweetness, mixed with the salt of his tears. “Oh, my king, you've explained yourself  _admirably_. I think I understand, now, why you must go. I wish it it weren't  _necessary_  for you to go, but I understand, now, that it  _is_.” He searches Thorin's eyes. “You're the king. It is your duty to see Azog the Defiler dead and gone. I . . . tend to forget, sometimes, that you're more than just the dwarf whom I love, but you're also the ruler of an  _entire people_. And that you must see justice done on their behalf. On the behalf of all whom you consider under your protection . . . including me.” With a crooked, once more apologetic smile, Bilbo sighs. “I didn't want to hear it from him—stormed right out of  _his chambers_ , too—but he was right, all along.”  
  
Thorin blinks. “Lord Elrond?” he asks, and Bilbo seems surprised.  
  
“What? No.  _Ori_. I haven't seen Lord Elrond since dinner.” Bilbo snorts wryly. “No, I went to Ori for . . . reassurance that I was right, I suppose. I didn't get it. And as I made my stormy exit, I accused him of being too . . . shall we say . . . infatuated with Dwalin and, er, too addle-pated from, er . . .  _being_  with Dwalin in  _that_  way to understand what I'm going through.” Turning crimson, Bilbo tucks his face against Thorin's throat. “I told him that he was too drunk on his newfound love to really give a toss about how anyone else's love was going.  
  
“I basically made an ass of myself to my best friend,” he finishes with another sigh. “Though he's probably already forgiven me. Still, I should apologize to him before too much longer passes—” he starts to pull out of Thorin's arms as if to leave, but Thorin holds onto him, tight.  
  
“Stay with me,” he breathes in Bilbo's soft, sweet-smelling hair. “Ori will keep. Just . . . stay with me.”  
  
Thorin can't help but hear the extra emphasis on  _stay_  added by his own heart. And apparently neither can Bilbo.  
  
“A-alright. I'll stay with you,” Bilbo says, as certain and unbreakable a promise as Thorin's ever received. The hobbit shivers in Thorin's arms, then Thorin's scooping him up and marching back the way he came: to Bilbo's bedchamber.  
  
Once there, he lays Bilbo gently down in bed, pausing a moment to gaze upon his love, and brush his fingers across one smooth, soft cheek. Bilbo smiles and kisses his fingers, shivering once again.  
  
“Are you cold?” Thorin asks solicitously, and Bilbo's smile turns wry.  
  
“A little,” he admits. “I had my stubborn, stupid anger to keep me warm all night and most of the morning. But that's gone, now. Good riddance.”  
  
Thorin returns the smile, then recalls something that'd tickled the edges of his mind since Bilbo flung himself into his arms. “Where were you? I looked in every room for you when first I arrived, and did not see you? Were you hiding, somewhere?”  
  
Bilbo's eyes skitter away from Thorin's briefly. “I, er,  _was_  hiding. In my guarderobe. I, er, went in there when I heard you open the door.” Those autumn eyes meet Thorin's again, and that wry smile gets even more so. “I didn't think I wanted to see you ever again. Silly of me, really. To think that and to, er, hide from you like a naughty child.”  
  
“It's quite understandable,” Thorin replies, caressing Bilbo's cheek again, his own coloring as he realizes something else. “So . . . you heard what I said—”  
  
“All of it,” Bilbo whispers, kissing Thorin's fingers again, his eyes fluttering shut as he does so. Thorin colors more deeply.  
  
“Had I known you were listening,” he begins awkwardly, but Bilbo laughs.  
  
“ _Had_  you known, you wouldn't have explained it nearly so plainly or well. And I likely wouldn't have listened with a relatively open mind and heart.” When Bilbo's eyes open again, they gaze up at Thorin with love, affection, and fondness. “I'm sorry I hid from you . . . but then again, I'm  _not_ , if you take my meaning.”  
  
“I do,” Thorin says, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's forehead. “I'm sorry that you felt the need to hide, but since it's gotten us to this point, I'll take the good with the bad and count myself ahead.”  
  
Thorin's next kiss lights gently on Bilbo's lips for long moments before Thorin's straightening up and stretching. “Let me get a fire going before I lose myself in . . . you.”  
  
Blushing now, himself, Bilbo nods and sits up on his elbows to watch Thorin do so. Thorin can feel that yearning, wanting,  _wanton_  gaze on him the whole time, and before the tinder's even caught properly, he's more than half hard.  
  
When the fire is, at last, burning merrily, Thorin stands up and turns to face his lover, the desire in his own eyes burning as hot as the fire at his back.  
  
Bilbo grins, flushed and still blushing, and holds out his arms.


	21. Dawn of a New Age 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo gets another proposal. A wedding date is set. The appropriate parties are informed. Erebor gains an ally, and Thorin gains a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The fault lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::
> 
> Pairings: Bilbo/Thorin, implied Dwalin/Ori, Kili/Tauriel (a barely-there, squint-or-you'll-miss-it mention of Balin/Dori . . . thank you for giving me another 'ship to squee over, Badskippy)

“I can practically hear gears grinding, my king,” Bilbo murmurs fondly, running his hand down Thorin's arm, which rests near his own. “What are you thinking about?”  
  
Startled—he'd genuinely thought his lover had fallen asleep, so quiet and still was he—Thorin lifts his head from where it lies over Bilbo's heart and kisses the exact spot where the slow, steady beat is strongest. Bilbo smiles his sweet, lovely smile and cups Thorin's cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb along the high cheekbone.  
  
“I'm thinking about you, of course,” Thorin replies, smiling a little, but solemnly. “Or rather . . . _us_.”  
  
“Mm. What  _about_  us?” Bilbo waggles his eyebrows in a fairly ridiculous manner and Thorin snorts.  
  
“Not  _that_ , my love . . . though not far off the mark.” Thorin's smile widens—as it tends to do when Bilbo is so happy and relaxed . . . and  _safe_. “I was thinking that—if I haven't put you off by my . . . immature display last night—”  
  
“Last night is forgotten,” Bilbo says firmly, sitting up a little to plant an equally firm kiss on Thorin's lips. “It was a misunderstanding. A miscommunication. One that I hope we've more than made up for,” Bilbo adds, drawing his left leg up alongside Thorin's body, which lays between his legs. Thorin, of course, automatically places a hand on Bilbo's thigh, running his hand up and down it slowly, soothingly.  
  
“Does that mean,” he begins hesitantly, as uncertain as he's ever been about  _anything_ , “that you are still perhaps interested in becoming my consort? Do you wish us to join in more than just our hearts and minds, but on paper and before witnesses? To be bound for life and after death in a way history will recognize and remember, and no one, not even the gods, can tear asunder?”  
  
“Oh, Thorin . . . of  _course_  I still wish that!” Bilbo kisses Thorin again, this time gently. He lingers for a few moments before his smile, big and bright, breaks the kiss. “I wish that more than anything! I would stand by your side forever . . . if that's something  _you_  still wish of  _me_.”  
  
And despite yesterday's fight being  _forgotten_ , there's as much uncertainty and reluctance in Bilbo's voice as there'd been in Thorin's a moment ago. And that simply will not do.  
  
“Nothing could please me more, my love,” he reassures Bilbo, taking the hand that still cups his cheek and pulling it to his lips. “As it is, I feel we are already bound, you to me and me to you, forever, in a way that no paper contract could ever manage. I will spend every lifetime and every moment in between those lifetimes with  _you_ , Bilbo Baggins, and no other, for you are my one true love.”  
  
Bilbo's eyes fill with tears. “And you are mine, Thorin Oakenshield.”  
  
Unable to help the wide grin that takes over his face, Thorin kisses Bilbo's hand again. “Then marry me. Today.  _Tonight_.” Searching Bilbo's suddenly widened eyes, Thorin's grins spreads practically to his ears. “Become mine before the eyes of the fellowship, and by the laws and standards of my people.”  
  
“B-but—” Bilbo finally bibbles, still blinking and surprised. “We haven't even begun to  _plan_  for a wedding! We haven't even had an engagement party!”  
  
Thorin is confused. “A  _what_?”  
  
“Forget the engagement  _party_ —no one even  _knows_  we're  _engaged_ , except Ori . . . and I suppose Dwalin, by now,” Bilbo rolls his eyes, but seems amused. “And we've only been engaged for—not even a full day! Oh, Thorin—we can't get married  _tonight_!”  
  
“Why not?” Thorin laughs and leans in to kiss Bilbo's lips, and kiss them till the hobbit gives up on trying to answer Thorin's entirely rhetorical question. “We both agree that we wish to be together—that we  _will_  be together forever . . . and we both know that there is no one else we wish to be with. Right?”  
  
“Of course,” Bilbo breathes when Thorin's uncertainty colors his voice briefly. “No one but you, my king, my love.”  
  
“And no one but you, my consort, my love.” Thorin sighs happily. “The length of our engagement is neither here nor there, nor is it the concern of anyone beyond the two of us. And to be honest, Balin has long been asking me when I'll make an honest hobbit of you. He even has several different contracts drawn up for us to sign.”  
  
“Really? Several? All at once?” Bilbo frowns, looking puzzled. “I thought dwarves only signed one marriage contract per marriage.”  
  
“We do. But there are several types of unions among dwarves, some of which qualify as marriages, whether temporarily or eternally binding—the latter would be the kind I would sign with you—and other contracts that are marriages simply for the productions of heirs to fortunes or titles, or to unite two families. And there are also the different kinds of concubinage—”  
  
“Dwarves,” Bilbo interrupts to say with exasperation and amusement in equal measures. Thorin pulls Bilbo's hand up to his face once more and mock-bites the base of Bilbo's thumb several times, till the hobbit starts giggling.  
  
“You happen to be marrying into my race, so I'll thank you not to disparage us, Master Baggins.”  
  
“Oh, that wasn't said at all disparaginly. I happen to be  _quite_  fond of dwarves . . . in general and in specific.” Bilbo brushes the tip of his thumb across Thorin's lips. “So you want us, after being engaged for only a day—less, in fact—to sign an eternally binding marriage contract  _tonight_ , in front of all our friends and your family, who for the most part have no idea that we've even talked about engagement, let alone an eternal union?”  
  
Thorin nods once, holding his breath even as his heart-rate speeds up.  
  
Bilbo is the one to sigh, this time, but happily. “You are the best thing that's ever happened to me, Thorin Oakenshield. And I would be honored to sign such a contract with you whenever you wish,” he says softly, leaning their foreheads together. “I love you.”  
  
“And I love  _you_ , joy of my life.” Thorin lets out the breath he'd been holding and means to let his heart slow before speaking again. But if anything, it continues to beat faster and faster, as if it would take flight from the cage of his chest. “When next the sun shines on you, you will be a consort of the line of Durin, bravest and fiercest in a long line of brave and fierce consorts. And we will rule our kingdom hand in hand and back to back.”  
  
Bilbo's eyes widen again. “That's sweet of you to offer, but—I've never ruled over  _anything_  in my life, Thorin! I've never even presided over a relay-race!”  
  
“You've already been ruling Erebor in part for many months, now. Have you any idea how many solutions of  _yours_  I've implemented, how many problems you've helped me solve over dinners and luncheons—how many future problems, both politic and diplomatic, you and I will solve _together_?” Thorin smiles. “My love, we are an  _unstoppable_  team. Never are we stronger than when we work together.”  
  
“But Thorin—the decisions you make are still your own. Still the  _king's_. And you  _are_  a  _great_ king,” Bilbo says so earnestly that Thorin blushes under the praise.  
  
“And you know the old saying about how behind every great king—”  
  
“If you call me your queen, I may have to back out of this engagement,” Bilbo says, eyes narrowing with real asperity. Thorin clears his throat and forces away a small laugh.  
  
“Behind every great king, is a great  _consort_. And you  _are_  great, make no mistake about it, my love. It is a quiet greatness—a greatness of spirit and character—but greatness, nonetheless.” Thorin lays his head on Bilbo's chest once more, letting his own heart be lulled and soothed by the beat so close under soft, smooth skin. “I honestly do not think that I can effectively rule this kingdom without your kindness, your mercy, and your gentle, wise heart, to leaven me. I wouldn't  _wish to_ , for my rule would be lopsided and lacking without you to balance it.”  
  
And so saying, Thorin falls silent. Bilbo's hand comes up to stroke his hair, slowly and thoughtfully.  
  
“If this is what you desire, then . . . I will try to be worthy of the faith and trust you're placing in me, my king,” Bilbo says at last, lowly.  
  
“You are  _already_  worthy, my consort.”  
  
This time, Bilbo holds his peace, though Thorin knows it's because he has doubts about his ability to rule by Thorin's side. Doubts that he would not trouble Thorin further about.  
  
 _Such doubts will fade in time,_  Thorin thinks with grave certainty, even as he remembers time may be something of which they don't have much.  
  
In fact, they have only three and one-half days from this very moment until Thorin must hunt Azog. And only three days flat as king and consort before Thorin must go courting doom.  
  
Thorin refuses to waste any of that time with megrims or doubts. And he means to keep his hobbit distracted from  _both_.  
  
He turns his head slightly and kisses Bilbo's nipple before running the tip of his tongue around it. Bilbo's breath catches and the legs bracketing Thorin's come up to wraps around his hips agilely; one hand continues to play with Thorin's hair while the other cups Thorin's face once more.  
  
“ _Thorin,_ ” Bilbo sighs shakily, his loving gaze bright and intent on Thorin's. “I  _love_  you . . . more than anything.”  
  
“And I, you, Bilbo.”  
  
And nothing more is said—or need be said—for some time after that.  
  


*

  
  
“Well! It's about time!”  
  
This is Balin's response later in the afternoon, when Thorin approaches him about arranging for a contract signing at moon's meridian, with the fellowship and Dis as witnesses.  
  
Thorin rolls his eyes. “I could not imagine you'd be surprised.”  
  
Balin snorts. “I'm  _not_. I saw this coming from practically the moment the two of you met. I am, however, surprised that you wish to have the signing  _tonight_  . . . practically on the eve of this hunt for Azog the Defiler—”  
  
Thorin holds up a hand before Balin can start up the argument on  _that_  again. “If anything, it should surprise  _you_  least of all. You, of all dwarves, know the importance of legitimatizing the love that has come to define you. And at a time when you you may not  _have_  much time left in which to enjoy and celebrate the sweetness of such a love.”  
  
And Balin glances away from Thorin's sober gaze, no doubt thinking of his own recent, quiet contract-signing with Dori. (Of the fellowship, only Nori had not been surprised when Balin and Dori had announced their intentions. But they'd all of them, every last dwarf of the fellowship, and Bilbo, had stood as witnesses to the pair's contract-signing, and wished them well.)  
  
Then Balin sighs, shaking his head. “You always were one for carrying through with a decision, laddie, no matter what the naysayers thought.”  
  
“To do otherwise would be to live the life others wanted for me, not the life I wanted for myself.” Thorin shrugs and sits in the chair across from Balin's. Between them is the older dwarf's huge desk, littered with parchment and books. “He is already mine, till time and times are done. The signing of a contract will only cement that union before the eyes of our friends and family. And the gods.”  
  
“I see.” Balin sighs again. “And I cannot imagine that  _you_  are settling for anything less than a lifetime-marriage, and making him a full consort.”  
  
Thorin nods, leaning back in the chair. “Correct. We will sign the contract at moon's meridian, in the East Gallery.” He pauses as something occurs to him. “You still have the key, do you not? To the vault where the consort's coronet is kept?”  
  
“But of course.” Balin sounds slightly offended that Thorin even feels the need to ask.  
  
“Good.” Thorin sighs now. “For I will have history remember him as more than merely dwarf-friend and savior-of-the-king. I would have him remembered as the greatest consort Erebor has ever seen, and the completion of her king. Never will my love for him or his place in our society and history be questioned.”  
  
“No one questions it  _now_ , laddie,” Balin says gently. “At least no one who matters.”  
  
Thorin grunts. “I want the world to know what he means to me. To see that he is more than worthy to be the companion of a king and a co-ruler in his own right. And I want it to know as soon as possible . . . just in case I. . . .”  
  
Falling silent, Thorin meets Balin's wise, sad eyes. The other dwarf nods, but does not start up an argument about the wisdom—or lack thereof, in his eyes—of his king going off to mire himself in Azog the Defiler's trap.  
  
“Should I not return from this hunt, he  _will_  be accorded all the rights and honors and rank of any consort-in-mourning,” Thorin says, and it is  _not_  a question. Balin nods heavily, unhappily, but understandingly.  
  
“Aye, my king. It will be as you say, should the hunt go ill.”  
  
And for a few minutes afterwards, neither of them says anything, nor will they meet the other's gaze. Until finally Balin brings up a piece of legislation put before the Council by Thorin himself and awaiting ratifying.  
  
Safely ensconced in matters not of the heart, but of the law, both dwarves speak for a few minutes more, until Thorin leaves inform to Dis of the upcoming wedding—just as Bilbo is currently informing Ori—and Balin leaves to inform the other twelve members of the fellowship about the king's impending marriage, and their expected attendance.  
  


*

  
  
Dis is, as always, pleased to see Thorin, in her reserved way.  
  
She welcomes him in and sees him seated at her fire for several very-nearly-comfortable minutes, before Thorin opens his mouth to speak. What comes out surprises them both.  
  
“You look more and more like our mother every time I see you.”  
  
When the surprise has passed—at least the startled look on Dis' fair face has faded to wry amusement—he goes on. “You and Frerin were exact copies of her, from her golden curls to her bright blue eyes and welcoming smile. Many things about her have I forgotten, but never her smile.” Thorin says quietly . . . then snorts. “I suppose I take after father in looks. And smile. Or lack thereof.”  
  
“Hmm. More so in temperament, than looks,” Dis says, tilting her head and gazing at Thorin as if seeing him for the first time in a long time. “As for looks, you resemble our grandfather so much that were your hair silvered, you could easily pass for him. You have his look and his manner. His  _bearing_.”  
  
Remembering Lord Elrond saying that very thing, once upon a journey, Thorin shivers, but covers it with a smile and a shrug. He ruthlessly tamps down the sudden fear that as he carries his grandfather's bearing, so does he carry his grandfather's ultimate fate.  
  
His ultimate  _defeat_.  
  
“I wish you could have known her, even as much as Frerin did,” Thorin says finally, and Dis' smile turns melancholy.  
  
“Between Nanny Margonna, and you and Frerin, I had as much mothering as I could ever want,” she says with a little laugh. “Especially as I got older and boys began to take an interest in me. You and/or Frerin would always somehow manage to be within viewing distance of our first and sometimes only outings—depending on the boy's foolhardiness or stubbornness in the face of your campaigns of fear—holding an ax or a shovel, glaring holes into whomever was foolhardy enough to try and court me.”  
  
Thorin smirks, remembering some of the lily-livered cowards that had thought themselves good enough for  _his_  sister when they hadn't even been good enough to brave her brothers for longer than a few outings. Only one such boy ever had been. “We kept away the riff-raff. And eventually you married someone of quality.”  
  
“No thanks to the two of you!” Now, Dis' laugh is as bright as her cornflower-eyes. “It is quite amazing that Fili and Kili were even conceived, with the threats and terrible things the two of you got up to!”  
  
“Ah, those, er, threats, were all in good fun. Why, we made good on practically none of them,” Thorin says brusquely, remembering the sometimes  _awful_  "threats" they'd sworn to carry out to Fali, son of Vali: a relatively sanguine soul around the time he'd started to court Dis, though by the night the pair had signed their mariage contract, the young captain of Erebor's archers had been a nervous wreck. Indeed, if he'd been able to . . .  _perform_  . . . the night of the signing, after Thorin's own and Frerin's repeated threats of dismemberment, disembowlment, and . . . dis _member_ ment just at the contract-signing alone, why . . . Thorin would smile and kiss a pig.  
  
Of course, in retrospect, such . . . over-protecive behaviors from Thorin and Frerin had been wholly unnecessary in this final case. Fali's honor, and his reverence for Dis were quite obvious in hindsight. Never would he have harmed her, or let harm come to her or her children. Never would he have pressured her into something she didn't want. Never would he have broken her heart by being untrue. Never would he have taken up with Dis simply for the power and gold it would eventually bring him, for any dwarf proud to be a captain of  _archers_ —not exactly the most feared and respected section of the guard, despite their successes and prowess with their chosen weapons—would be uninterested in currying favor with a princess to get his hands on gold, and dabble in power-games.  
  
 _Fali was a fine person. One of the finest,_  Thorin thinks sadly, and experiences a pang of genuine bereavement for the dead captain. At some point, between Vali's first courting gift to Dis and Fili's birth, the quiet dwarf had become as Thorin and Frerin's true-brother, for he had treated Dis like the treasure she was and had loved his young sons to distraction. This, more than anything, had won Frerin, and eventually Thorin, to Fali's side.  
  
Had he lived longer, he would have no doubt been proud of the dwarves his sons had grown into with Thorin's occasional help and guidance. In fact, Thorin is quite certain that, wherever Fali, son of Vali, is now, he is smiling down on his sons. And on Dis.  
  
“So I suppose if I should go about making ridiculous threats to Master Baggins and generally terrorizing him right up until your wedding night,  _that_  sort of turnabout would be fair-play?” Dis' says suddenly, and one blonde eyebrow quirks up in a way that reminds Thorin of no one so much as it does of Lord Elrond. . . .  
  
Thorin shakes his head once to dismiss the discomfitting comparison.  
  
“Well, if you wish to do so, you have several hours left in which to do it, so be quick.” Off Dis' confused look, Thorin tries on a smile. “Bilbo and I are signing our marriage contract tonight. 'Ere the rising of the moon, he will be my consort. We wish you and the fellowship to be our witnesses.”  
  
Dis' mouth drops open and her eyes widen. But all she says is: “When did you get engaged?”  
  
Chuckling briefly, nervously, Thorin, turns his gaze to his hands, which are fidgetting in his lap. “Er . . . yesterday afternoon. . . .”  
  
“And you're getting married so soon after?” Dis blinks, shaking her head slowly, curls—for she has ever worn her hair loose, showing off the natural curls for which so few dwarves are known—and ringlets shifting and sliding around her shoulders.  
  
After long moments of staring at him—he can feel her gaze, as bright as the sky above the mountain—Dis finally begins chuckling as well, placing her own hands on her thighs and rubbing them against the fine wool of her tunic.  
  
“Oh, brother,” she says, her chuckles turning into laughs, high and girlish. “It certainly  _took you_ long enough to find someone to settle down with! Nearly two hundred years! I've had my hopes that you would find someone worthy of your heart—someone you could trust . . . and Frerin swore up and down that you would  _never_  find that person, that One—but I was beginning to doubt even your Master Baggins could tame that contrary nature of yours—that Frerin was right!”  
  
“And what did either of you know about it?” Thorin blurts out defensively, not liking the idea of his . . . lack of a love-life being bandied about by his  _younger_  siblings.  
  
Dis' eyebrow quirks again. “I cannot count how many times Frerin told me about that boy you loved when you were a child—the one who died when he took Frerin sledding and Frerin broke his arm.” When Thorin starts, Dis nods knowingly, sympathetically. “Frerin always blamed himself for the boy's death—Gholin, I think his name was. . . .”  
  
“Yes,” Thorin says softly, sadly, but without bitterness. “That was his name.”  
  
“And well Frerin remembered it. Well he remembered the look on your face when you realized that Gholin was dead. Well he remembered the way you gave the boy your benediction before kissing him farewell. And he remembered, most vividly of all, your tears . . . for never had he seen you weep before. Or since. . . .  
  
“Frerin used to say that of all the deaths he'd ever seen that your Gholin's was the first and the worst—the most personally devastating, and that it was all his fault.”  
  
Shaking his head, Thorin smiles mirthlessly. Frerin  _would_  think exactly that. Always taking responsibility and blame for things that weren't even remotely his fault. Trying to carry the _world_  on his shoulders when that was  _Thorin's_  job, as eldest and heir. “No. It wasn't. It was  _my_ fault. Gholin was being kind to Frerin by taking him sledding because  _I_  was being too stubborn and insolent to do so.  _He_  was playing big brother and died doing what  _I_   _should_  have been doing.”  
  
Dis tilts her head curiously. “That's not how Frerin remembered it. He remembered insisting on going out with you boys despite you telling him he was too young, and that he'd begged Gholin to take him down the hill. He never placed the blame for Gholin's death anywhere but on his own shoulders. The same for your . . . seeming inability to fall in love ever again. For as he grew older, he said, he understood that you'd had strong feelings for the boy whose death he'd felt he caused. That he hadn't understood it when he was young—had only understood that he'd been responsible for the death of one of your friends—but as he got older, he put the pieces together. And he realized that he may have cost you your ability to give your heart away. Ever did such thoughts haunt his waking.”  
  
“Nonsense,” Thorin says tersely, coloring, and not for the first time that day. “Frerin was a mere boy. He bore no responsibility for my actions or for Gholin's. And certainly not for what was . . . a tragic accident,” he adds, remembering what Bilbo had said that day on the battlements. “Sometimes such accidents happen and when they do, they are no one's fault . . . not even _mine_.”  
  
Dis' eyes widen again, as if surprised to hear such a statement fall from her brother's lips.  
  
“That is what I often tried to tell Frerin. But his head was even harder than yours, and he lacked your occasional displays of common sense.” When Thorin scowls, Dis smiles again. “At any rate, I'm only relating what he told  _me_  when  _I_  was old enough to understand. Frerin said you were never the same after Gholin's death. Ever were you cautious and untrusting of others. Wary of making ties with anyone.” She sighs. “That no matter how much he pushed at you and pressed you to find at least  _a_  lover, if not the love of your life, you resisted his efforts.”  
  
“I've had lovers before Master Baggins!” Thorin exclaims, rather louder than he means to, and Dis smiles wryly.  
  
“Lovers that became  _loves_? Ah, I see the answer is no,” Dis says before Thorin can even think of a decent, believable reason for why his answer would, indeed,  _have_  been  _no_. “Your Master Baggins must be someone quite special for you to give your heart to him. To make him your consort.”  
  
“He is, Dis. He is . . .  _everything_ ,” Thorin replies simply, with a sigh of his own. A besotted one, he knows, and does not care. “I wish to make this plain to the world before I go chasing my doom. Or, hopefully, Azog the Defiler's.”  
  
Now, Dis is frowning. “Yes, Kili told me about that last night. At length.”  
  
“Still woried about his Tauriel, is he?”  
  
Dis snorts. “You understate matters, brother. He's worked himself into a fine state of botheration where that girl is concerned. I cannot even ask after her without Kili jumping to her defense as if I'd slandered her entire family!”  
  
“Yes, I've noticed that he's . . . quite fiercely protective of her.”  
  
“Indeed.” Dis' frown evens out into a pleasantly mild smile once more. “Just as Fili takes after his Uncle Frerin, so Kili takes after his Uncle Thorin, turning into a bear to swipe and growl at anyone who even mentions his beloved.”  
  
Coloring again, Thorin clears his throat. “I'm . . . not as bad as  _Kili_.”  
  
“Are you not?” Dis quirks  _both_  fair brows, now, and laughs. “I stand corrected.”  
  
“Dis—”  
  
“In any event, I trust that with the advent of your marriage, I will be able to inquire after him in passing without you glaring at me as if I'd tried to steal a pile of gems from under your nose?”  
  
“I don't—“ Thorin starts, then stops. For he knows he  _does_ , in fact, do just that. Has done it to everyone, even the fellowship. Even his  _sister_. He heaves another sigh. “I . . . it is not that I think you or the others are trying to pry or insert yourself into matters where you don't belong, it's just that . . . Master Baggins has, as you know, been unwell—”  
  
“This is not a secret, brother,” Dis' smile turns sad again. “No amount of treating it as such will change that. In fact, it only added fuel to the rumors flying around Erebor about Bilbo Baggins . . . the king's mad lover.”  
  
“And such scurrilous gossip and rumor is why I am perhaps . . . a bear when it comes to defending him. And protecting him from the scrutiny of others. Yes, well, I know, that such rumors have flown about Erebor about the person whom I love.”  _Well_  Thorin knows, for Balin and Nori had brought reports of such rumors going around, and Thorin had chosen to ignore them, rather than combat them, not wishing to add fuel to an already blazing fire by giving the rumors credence.  
  
Perhaps he'd been wrong, but it was too late, now, to go back and change that. At the time, his only concern had been protecting Bilbo's privacy and dignity, as well as his tender heart—giving him the time and space needed to begin healing.  
  
And then, when he and Bilbo had begun sharing a bed, he'd been too distracted by his intense desires to really notice or care about the rumor-mill, anymore.  
  
“The rumors have, over the winter, been fading, some. It helps, of course, that Master Baggins is seen around more often outside the royal wing and the throne room, and is perfectly lovely to have a chat with when one does see him. It also helps that he doesn't wake up half of Ererbor of a night with his screams and sobs,” Dis adds quietly, and Thorin automatically glares at her, causing another sigh.  
  
“See? You're turning into a bear, right now, and I haven't even asked you anything.”  
  
“Perhaps you haven't. But you're treading dangerously close to matters that do not concern you. Matters that are neither common knowledge, nor open to conjecture or supposition,” Thorin grits out. “All you or anyone else need know is that Master Baggins was unwell for a time, and now, he is healing. You have evidence of it in his behavior and yes, the fact that he no longer wakes up every night screaming or sobbing. There, let it rest. If you love me and would welcome Master Baggins into your heart as well, let it rest.”  
  
Dis searches Thorin's eyes and finally nods once. “For both your sakes, I will not speculate on his illness to you, or to him, or to others. Nor have I  _ever_  done so prior to this discussion.”  
  
Relieved—Dis has a keen and penetating mind and, having no doubt read the official recountings of the quest for Erebor (as well as heard from her sons their versions of events) she could, with very little effort, make a disturbingly accurate connection between Bilbo's illness, and Thorin's sudden and burning desire to see Azog the Defiler dead personally—that his sister will not pursue the matter, Thorin practically sags in his chair.  
  
“I thank you, sister,” he murmurs, and Dis reaches across the brief distance separating them and squeezes his arm for a few moments.  
  
“I love you, Thorin. Never doubt it. I would carry out whatever you asked of me, even if it would break my heart to do it. So it will be nothing to keep Master Baggins' past illness  _in the past_ , where it belongs, and accept the person that he has become,” she says with an earnest and unadorned sincerity that makes Thorin swallow around a sudden lump in his throat.  
  
“Thank you again, Dis. And I love you, as well. I would die defending you—and your sons, for I love them, too, as if they were my own,” he returns, reaching out for her hand. She takes his without hesitation and they sit quietly for long minutes, more comfortably, perhaps, than ever they have.  
  
“Would you object to telling me a little more about Master Baggins?” she asks with unusual reticence. “For I would know more about him, and yet he seems to . . . not be comfortable around me.”  
  
 _Because you witnessed him at his worst—screaming and caught in the grip of a night terror that rendered him both confused and forgetful upon waking . . . as frightened as a rabbit, and as defenseless as a babe. . . ._  Thorin thinks, but doesn't say. For to speak of it to Dis, now, would serve neither Thorin's lover nor his sister.  
  
“That is only because he does not know you well, and may, perhaps, be a bit intimidated,” he says, and leaves it at that. He clasps Dis' smaller, finer hand in his both of his own, turning it to look at her palm. “As for Master Baggins, he is . . . well, he is above all else, brave and stout-hearted, kind and compassionate, and as true a companion as ever there was. Though, when first we met, I did not see it. Or told myself that I did not. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
When Lord Elrond opens the doors to his chambers, he seems somewhat surprised to see Thorin and Bilbo there, hand in hand, the former looking vaguely dyspeptic and the other looking nervously upbeat.  
  
“Good afternoon, King Thorin and Master Baggins,” he says, inclining his head and standing aside by way of invitation. “You're rather early for dinner.”  
  
“That's because we're not here for dinner—and won't be able to come to dinner tonight because—well, we'll have just got done with signing our marriage contract,” Bilbo says in an excited rush, and Lord Elrond's straight, dark brows shoot up.  
  
“I . . . I beg your pardon?” he says finally, as if uncertain that he's heard correctly.  
  
“We're signing a marriage contract this evening, at moon's meridian,” Thorin says gruffly, clearing his throat as Bilbo squeezes his hand and leans against him with a happy little sigh. “You're invited, of course. You and your companions. Though if you do attend, you'll be expected to sign the contract as well, as witnesses.”  
  
Lord Elrond's reaction to this warning is to blink and shake his head once. “I. . . .”  
  
“Oh, please, say you'll come be a witness, my lord?” Bilbo asks, bouncing in place, now clasping Thorin's hand in both of his own. “If not for you, I doubt we'd have ever got this far on our own. We have  _you_  to thank for so many reasons. It would only be right if you witnessed the result of your invaluable help and advice.”  
  
“I—of course, Master Baggins. Of course, King Thorin. I would be  _honored_  to attend the signing of your marriage contract.” The elven lord seems rather nonplussed—something else Thorin has never seen from an elf. “I will inform Lannir and Rodhrhan. I'm certain they will clear their schedules to attend, as well.”  
  
“Spectacular!” Bilbo exclaims as Thorin clears his throat again and says: “Good.”  
  
And everyone stands there, staring, scowling, and beaming at each other, respectively, until Thorin clears his throat for a third time, Lord Elrond inclines his head again, and Bilbo bounces, pulling Thorin's arm around him.  
  
“Well. I'll have Balin send a page to bring you to the East Gallery when the moon approaches its zenith.” Thorin inclines his head right back to Lord Elrond, respectfully. But Bilbo, holds out his hand to the elven lord.  
  
After another moment of surprise, Lord Elrond reaches out and takes it. And Bilbo's hand does not tremor. Nor does he pull away as quickly as he would have even six weeks ago.  
  
He is, indeed, healing, and Thorin is, as always,  _proud_  of his hobbit.  
  
“Thank you again, my lord. For  _everything_ ,” Bilbo says in a quiet, slightly choked voice. And now, Lord Elrond smiles, his surprise melting into a gaze that's approving and fond.  
  
“I did nothing, Master Baggins, that you were not willing to do for yourself.  _You_  have healed and are healing  _yourself_. I'm merely pointing you in the right direction.”  
  
“Direction is every bit as important as willpower. Without each other, they are nothing, are they not?” Bilbo asks, glancing at Thorin as if for agreement. Thorin nods, his own smile finally making an appearance.  
  
“Indeed, my love,” he says, kissing the crown of Bilbo's head and inhaling the scent of springtime, a scent he hopes he lives long enough to smell in true. “They are nothing without the other.”  
  
Lord Elrond's gaze ticks between them, finally settling knowingly on Thorin. “I am happy for you both, and wish you every joy and blessing.”  
  
“Thank you,” both Thorin and Bilbo say, Bilbo clinging to Thorin in an embrace that Thorin returns with as much feeling, if not more, despite his normally stoic demeanor around Lord Elrond.  
  
After a few moments, however, he's pulling out of said embrace just enough to bow low before the elven lord. Bilbo is only a bare instant behind Thorin.  
  
And Lord Elrond bows to them.  
  
 _He's not bad, for an elf,_  Thorin thinks, not for the first time, though, as always, with that same measure of wary surprise.  _Thranduil could certainly learn a thing or two from him on how to treat others._  
  
“I am in your debt, Lord Elrond,” Thorin says when he straightens, and can look the tall elven lord in the eyes. He gets to see that nonplussed expression on an elf for only the second time in his life. But the look fades into one that's as . . . touched as it is intent. Thorin glances at Bilbo, who also looks quite startled, but pleased as well. As if  _he_  is proud of  _Thorin_ , for some reason. “You have given me a gift more precious than any metal or stone to be found in Arda. A gift I never thought I'd get to call my own. If  _ever_  you or Imladris are in need of aide . . . look no further than Erebor, for Thorin Oakenshield and the line of Durin everafter will see that need met.”  
  
“I thank you, King Thorin,” Lord Elrond says softly. “This means . . . more to me than you may realize. For long has Imladris desired to look upon Erebor as a friend.”  
  
And with that not-quite question, he extends his hand, exactly as Bilbo had, for shaking.  
  
Thorin glances at Bilbo again and, urged on by that dazzling, expectant smile, turns back to Lord Elrond, and throws his reservations and caution to the wind. He takes the offered hand. The elven lord's grip is firm, warm, and dry.  
  
“Imladris may count Erebor as a friend, if Erebor may do the same, Lord Elrond,” Thorin says, and Lord Elrond smiles.  
  
“It certainly may, King Thorin.”  
  
And Thorin gets the very strong feeling that Erebor isn't the only one who's just made a friend. For Lord Elrond's gaze is warmer and kinder than ever.  
  
 _Who would have thought that Thorin Oakenshield would live long enough to befriend an elf?_ Thorin thinks with no small amount of chagrin and wonder.  _Even_ this _elf?_  
  
Then Bilbo, for his part, bobs up to nuzzle and kiss Thorin's cheek, and whisper in his ear: “I love you, my king. And I'm  _proud of you_.”  
  
Thorin finds himself smiling, too. Practically  _beaming_  under the warm, approving gazes of his lover and his new friend.


	22. Dawn of a New Age 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening of the impromptu wedding. Thorin is nervous and Bilbo is resplendant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Look not to me for answers.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. Allusions made to PAST NON-CON. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::  
> Pairings: Bilbo/Thorin, implied or mentioned Bofur/Fili, Kili/Tauriel, Balin/Dori, Dwalin/Ori

Thorin paces impatiently from room to room of his chambers, his ceremonial outfit—tunic to robe to bloody  _crown_ —making him feel encumbered and irritable.  
  
Uncertain. Not of himself, but of Bilbo.  
  
 _What if he changes his mind?_  Thorin wonders, pausing in the main room, near the hearth and Bilbo's chair—the  _only_  chair, since Thorin'd kicked his own into the fireplace the day before, and hadn't bothered to tell anyone to have it replaced.  _What if he decides that a life with me, in Erebor, is not what he wants? What if he decides that he misses the Shire and Hobbiton more than he desires to be with me? What if his illness isn't healing as well as we've all thought and he puts off the signing of our marriage contract indefinitely. What if—_  
  
Just then there's a knock on the door, and Thorin's instantly striding across his chambers to answer it.  
  
There stands Balin, dressed in his finest robe, his beard braided, for once—clearly Dori's been at it, and the other dwarf works  _fast_ —in a coiled and twisting design that confounds even Thorin's keen eye. Under Balin's right arm is a cunningly carved wooden box, and on top of the box, a very long and many times folded piece of parchment.  
  
The marriage contract.  
  
“It's time, laddie,” is all the older dwarf says, gently and kindly. He reaches out to pat Thorin's arm, smiling reassuringly at the look on Thorin's face—which feels gobsmacked and very worried. “It's time.”  
  
And so saying, he tugs on Thorin's arm to get him moving out the doors. Thorin goes where his second leads, his  _what-if_ s replaced by nothing but insensate gibbering in his mind. Foot follows foot in a lumbering fashion as Balin keeps hold of his arm and steers him to the East Gallery.  
  


*

  
  
The East Gallery is lit by nothing more than the light of the full moon at its meridian . . . a dark-bright wonder of black marble veined with white and silver, and inlaid with white gems in the shapes of the constellations of the eastern sky.  
  
The gallery isn't terribly large—made for more intimate, small, though no less important matters of state—its stone benches occupied from the very front, near the speaking podium, to several rows back. When the doors shut behind Balin, everyone looks around. Dis, Lord Elrond and his companions, Tauriel, and the fellowship—minus two—cheers and hoots and applauds. Even Lord Elrond joins in the applause, inclining his head graciously to Thorin, as do his companions, Lannir and Rodhrhan.  
  
Thorin and Balin are, as is tradition, the second to last to arrive at the East Gallery, Balin leading the still-gobstruck king down the single aisle of the gallery. Thorin tries to smile and nod to his and Bilbo's well-wishers—their  _friends_ —and manages not to do too bad a job of it from the smiles and nods he gets in return.  
  
Sooner, rather than later, he and Balin are at the podium. Balin, acting as magistrate-chief witness, takes his place on the podium and behind the lectern, on which he spreads out the contract for the reading and places the wooden box to the side.  
  
Thorin stands before the lectern, once more rendered a supplicant before the eyes of his friends, his witnesses, and faces the doors through whence he'd come.  
  
Indeed, he has eyes for nothing else.  
  
He is rewarded quite quickly for his vigilance, for mere seconds have passed before the doors open again, and framed perfectly in them, on Ori's arm, is Bilbo Baggins.  
  
He is . . .  _resplendent_  in a fitted, forest-green, velvet tunic Thorin has never seen, and matching trousers. Both tunic and trousers are embroidered at the seams with small gold and silver leaves. His hair, though ruthlessly brushed and tamed into a mere neat wave, is starting to curl at the edges in rebellion—a thing which makes Thorin smile more easily than he has since Balin knocked on his door.  
  
Bilbo returns the smile dazzlingly, his eyes shining brighter than the gems in the walls and ceiling and floor.  
  
Next to him—acting in place of parents or siblings for the purpose of giving Bilbo away—Ori is nicely dressed, too, having for once eschewed his Dori-knit sweaters and over-sized trousers for a more fitted brown tunic and breeches of fine wool and leather, respectively. A quick glance at Dwalin shows him to be nearly goggling at this apparently never-before-seen vision of his lover. . . .  
  
Then Dwalin, as does everyone else, starts applauding in earnest, his hoots and whistles causing Ori to blush and Bilbo to roll his eyes in amusement.  
  
All the while, the pair have been making their way steadily down the aisle, toward Thorin and Balin. As Bilbo draws nearer, Thorin's  _what-if_ s resurface with a vengeance, and even as Ori hands Bilbo to him with a big smile, Thorin wonders if Bilbo might not yet change his mind.  
  
But then Bilbo's standing in front of him, taking the hands Thorin automatically holds out. They gaze into each other's eyes for long, long moments . . . so long that by the time Thorin realizes Balin has been speaking, the contract is already being read. And just like that, there's no more time for  _what-if_ s.  
  
At several points during the reading—which is done relatively quickly . . . Balin does not linger over any of the finer points or print—Balin pauses to ask if both parties understand and swear to adhere to both the letter and spirit of the contract.  
  
“I will,” Thorin and Bilbo always reply, and always in tandem, smiling and flushing as they stare into each other's eyes.  
  
And at last, as the light of the moon begins to shift and change, as the shadows in the gallery begin to grow and the moon at meridian becomes the moon on its setting journey, Balin asks for the final time, if they've understood and will uphold the contract to the best of their ability.  
  
“Yes, we will,” Thorin and Bilbo say, squeezing each other's hands.  
  
“Excellent. You may both sign your marriage contract at the bottom, where indicated,” Balin says, standing back as Thorin leads his lover—momentarily to be his husband—around to the other side of the lectern. Thorin only gazes briefly at the contract itself, having eyes only for the place where he must sign his name to make Bilbo his once and for all.  
  
“Oh, right,” Balin says from behind them, and holding out an ornate and obviously ceremonial ink-pen made out of gold and also inlaid with jewels. “I nearly forgot.”  
  
“Oh, my,” Bilbo says, gazing wide-eyed at the pen. Thorin takes it with a chuckle and raises his right hand, which is still holding Bilbo's, to his lips. He kisses the hobbit's small, slim hand without breaking their gazes, and lingers till Bilbo flushes.  
  
Then and only then does Thorin turn to the contract and sign his name in a quick, near illegible scrawl that no amount of tutoring in penmanship had ever managed to neaten.  
  
“And now, you, Master Baggins,” Balin says unnecessarily, for Bilbo is already taking the pen from Thorin with a flirt of fingers, and scanning the contract—which is in Khuzdul that Bilbo can probably only barely read—and finally placing his pen on the line below Thorin's.  
  
He looks up at a suddenly nervous Thorin and smiles.  
  
“I love you, Thorin Oakenshield,” he says clearly, ringingly, and with that, he turns back to the contract and signs his name in a looping, swooping flourish. Then he's turning back to Thorin and grinning. “All bought and paid for, my love: one hobbit of beginning middle years.”  
  
Thorin lets out a breath he hadn't even been aware of holding, and pulls Bilbo close to him.  
  
“My consort,” he murmurs as his lips brush Bilbo's in a soft kiss. Bilbo's arms wind around Thorin's neck and he sighs into their kiss as Thorin clinches him tight about the waist, and picks him up and spins them around before putting him down.  
  
“There'll be time enough for  _that_  later, laddie . . . one side,” Balin is saying as he nudges—practically elbows Thorin in the back to get him to move from behind the lectern. Thorin laughs and kisses Bilbo harder, elated as he hears the scratch of the pen on parchment: the sound of the chief witnesses putting the final signature—the signatures of the other witnesses are mere formalities, in these latter days—on the contract to make it valid and binding before  _all_.  
  
“You are now joined before the eyes of your kith and your kin, your people and your gods,” Balin intones in a grave sort of voice, and Thorin knows that this is the point where—as the king—he's supposed to present his consort with the coronet. But he can't seem to stop kissing that perfect sweetness from Bilbo's lips, as if he would happily drown in the taste.  
  
Finally Balin takes it into his head to pry them apart—or attempt to; it is only thanks to Bilbo's remaining sense of propriety that Balin's even remotely successful—and Thorin at last, reluctantly releases his consort's lips. But before pulling away, he murmurs on them: “Nevermore will I resist you, my love. Nevermore will I deny myself your arms. Tonight I  _will_ have you completely.  _Repeatedly_.”  
  
In his arms, Bilbo shivers and opens eyes that sparkle like stars. “That is all I have  _ever_  wanted, my lord.”  
  
And they're about to lean in for another kiss when Balin clears his throat loudly and unsubtly. With a sigh, Thorin turns to face his second, to find the older dwarf holding the carved wooden box.  
  
Smiling— _No,_  Thorin thinks wryly, happily,  _it would not do to forget_ this _part_ —Thorin reaches out and undoes the latch holding the box shut. When he pushes the lid back, Bilbo gasps at what's inside. . . .  
  
The coronet is a simple piece: a braiding of gold and mithril together to form the circlet, and three delicate rays of gold extending from the solid mithril piece, where both ends of the braid are joined.  
  
“Many consorts through the years have worn this circlet,” Thorin begins quietly, removing the coronet from the box and turning to face Bilbo. Behind him, Balin closes the wooden box with a satisfied click and Bilbo's eyes are wide and just a bit scared . . . but determined, for all that. “But fewer have worn it well. And none have worn it as well as  _you_  will, my love.”  
  
And with that, Thorin raises the circlet for all those gathered to see. The gallery, which had been filled with low murmurs, is now silent and expectant.  
  
Bilbo blinks, then goes gracefully to one knee, bowing his head.  
  
Thorin knows he should have prepared a speech or something better than the nothing that comes to mind as he lowers the coronet. But he'd barely been able to remember his own name, so filled with worry that Bilbo would change his mind had he been.  
  
So he simply places the circlet on Bilbo's rebellious hair—already the tame wave has been replaced by hundreds of separate curlings, which happily accept the coronet as if they've been waiting for nothing so much as that—noting the way Bilbo shivers.  
  
Dry of mouth and shivering, himself, Thorin says: “Will you arise, my consort, and take your place by my side? For now and for-ever?”  
  
Bilbo looks up at Thorin, his eyes so wide and nervous and lovely. “I will, my lord.” And he stands shakily, his hands reaching out for Thorin's once more. Thorin steadies his consort and pulls him close, staring into those evening sky-eyes as one mesmerized.  
  
Then, as one, with a smiles for each other, they're turning to face the witnesses in the gallery, hand in hand.  
  
Ori is the first to start applauding, followed by Dwalin. Followed by everyone else, Balin included.  
  
Thorin finds himself grinning out at their family and friends as he and Bilbo step down from the podium together. The witnesses all stand, still applauding, as Thorin and Bilbo walk by, down the aisle.  
  
Thorin opens the doors to the hall and escorts his consort out, closing the doors behind them on the cheering and applause.  
  
He and Bilbo turn to face each other and Bilbo giggles—harder, when Thorin joins him with a chuckle.  
  
“So, my husband, what now?” he asks, reaching up to cup Thorin's cheek in his hand. Thorin hauls Bilbo close for a kiss that teases and tickles.  
  
“Now, my consort, we retire to our chambers while the witnesses sign the contract, and I change out of these ceremonial torture devices.” Thorin adjusts the crown on his head. It always feels as if it's gone crooked. “And then we adjourn to the royal dining chamber for our wedding party."  
  
“And then?” Bilbo asks archly, pressing his body against Thorin's quite enticingly. Thorin groans, taking Bilbo's lips in another kiss.  
  
“And then, we sneak out of our wedding party and back to our chambers, where I'll make good on what I promised you. And make good. And make good. And make good. . . .” Thorin swears on Bilbo's lips, each promise another kiss.  
  
Bilbo practically melts in his arms. “Is there any chance we could skip the wedding party?”  
  
“Now, now, my love, you were the one who wanted to have a wedding party in the first place. Dwarves have no such celebrations.  _You_  were the one who wanted to meld our cultural traditions.”  
  
“Well, yes, but I'm a very, very  _foolish_  hobbit,” Bilbo says quite reasonably, and Thorin chuckles again.  
  
“True. But you are  _my_  foolish hobbit.”  
  
“Indeed,” Bilbo murmurs, smiling. “Ever yours.”  
  
“And I am yours.”  
  
And they gaze silently into each other's eyes yet again, until Thorin scoops Bilbo up in his arms and bears him hence.  
  


*

  
  
The wedding party is more than ready to begin by the time Bilbo and Thorin arrive, hand in hand once more, and flushed from a quick, but much-needed canoodle against Thorin's guarderobe.  
  
More hoots and hollers and knowing applause goes up as the newly-wedded couple enter the dining chamber, and Bilbo blushes and smooths his only slightly-rumpled (and miraculously not stained) wedding suit. Thorin merely glares—or tries to—at his most trusted of friends and relatives.  
  
“Steady-on,” he growls, pulling Bilbo close and putting an arm around him. “Have you no respect for your king and his consort?”  
  
Dwalin laughs loudest and longest at this—Fili, Bofur, and Kili are close seconds—throwing an arm around Ori, who shrugs and smiles.  
  
“You've kept us waiting for long enough with whatever you were doing to make  _his highness_ blush so! Let's eat!” Dwalin says, already tugging Ori toward a spot near the left side of the king's chair, but leaving two seats free for Balin and Dori. To the right side of the table, leaving the seat immediately next to Thorin's free, Fili and Kili stand patiently behind the next seats with Bofur and Tauriel, respectively. At the far end of the table, as honored guests, but guests nonetheless, Lord Elrond and his companions round out the chair directly opposite the king's and the final two seats on either side of the table.  
  
Thorin, in a direct flouting of protocol, hands Bilbo into the seat immediately next to his, bowing and kissing Bilbo's hand. Then he sits in his throne-like chair—every bit as comfortable as the throne, itself . . . which is to say: not at all—and nods at the rest of the room. Everyone sits and begins chattering once more.  
  
Shortly thereafter, servants are bringing in ale and wine and starters.  
  
The wedding party is  _on_.  
  


*

  
  
“I wish  _every_  night could be like this,” Bilbo slurs, gesturing grandly as Thorin carries him into their chambers. “All of our loved ones around us and making merry! And such good food and drink!”  
  
Thorin smiles as the doors to their chambers close behind them, and kisses his consort's messy curls. “Indeed, my love. Especially the drink.”  
  
Bilbo turns a stern—if one ignores the slightly glazed and loopy look—eye on Thorin. “My king, is that your way of saying you think I'm drunk?”  
  
“Would I ever cast such an aspersion on you, my love?”  
  
Bilbo snorts and tucks his head under Thorin's chin, holding on tight. “Well. You may have _implied_  it once or twice.”  
  
“Might I have? Oh, well, I do apologize for that,” Thorin gently kicks open the door to their bedchamber and strides to their bed: a dwarf on a mission.  
  
“You're only saying sorry because you wish to ravish me,” Bilbo says, hiccoughing as Thorin lays him gently down. Hungry, heated eyes gaze steadily into Thorin's and he smiles.  
  
“You, my love, may not be drunk, but you are, however,  _quite_  tipsy,” Thorin informs him, sitting next to a suddenly giggling Bilbo to brush messy hair off a clear brow. “Tipsy and giggling like a tickled maid.”  
  
Which only makes Bilbo giggle more, which only urges Thorin to tickle his tipsy love until the giggles are interspersed with wheezes and pleas to  _stop_.  
  
So Thorin leaves off attacking Bilbo's poor, undefended ribs and leans down to steal a kiss. That kiss turns into a clinch, with Bilbo trying to pull Thorin down on top of him.  
  
“I must build up the fire, first.”  
  
“The fire can wait, Thorin. Make love to me.”  
  
Groaning, Thorin pulls out of Bilbo's arms regretfully. “You'll thank me in the morning when you don't wake up sneezing,” he says when Bilbo pouts pitifully up at him.  
  
Then he's off to the fireplace, quickly, efficiently, with the ease of practice, building up the fire to the way Bilbo likes it—hot enough to make Thorin swelter—all the while weathering that hot-eyed gaze on his back and the soft,  _whist_ -ing sounds of fine cloth sliding off of smooth skin.  
  
When the fire's roaring, Thorin turns to face the bed and finds his consort sprawled naked amongst the pillows, already hard and leaking, eyeing Thorin with bright, possessive desire.  
  
“Come here, my king,” he says lowly, crooking one finger at Thorin, who very nearly stumbles in his haste to be closer to his consort.  
  
“You are  _so lovely_ ,” Thorin murmurs, kneeling on the edge of the bed and gazing upon Bilbo. Ravishing his consort with his eyes first and foremost. “I would have liked to undress you myself, you know. Unwrap you like a gift.”  
  
Bilbo's eyebrows drift up under his riotous fringe. “My lord, you'd have torn my wedding clothes to rags to remove them, and per dwarvish tradition, the consort's wedding clothes are to be kept for posterity—and should the king choose to have a statue commissioned in honor of the consort, the consort is traditionally depicted wearing those same wedding clothes. And—”  
  
Thorin leans down to kiss Bilbo silent. The silence lasts for several heated minutes, and ends with Bilbo's soft moan when Thorin breaks the kiss.  
  
“You've been studying my people's traditions,” he says with wry approbation. Then he snorts self-deprecatingly. “And you're quite right. I'd have likely torn the clothes from your body in my haste to have you.”  
  
“Then  _have_  me, my lord.” Bilbo moans again, tugging at Thorin's tunic, obviously torn, himself, between attempting to rip the tunic from his husband's torso, and pulling Thorin down on top of him. His eyes are a bit more sober, now, and shining with anticipation and anxiety.  
  
With a  _fear_  that Thorin recognizes all too well.  
  
Bilbo fears not that Thorin will make love to him, but that, as Thorin has on other occasions, he will  _not_. That Thorin will find some excuse to leave Bilbo trembling and needy, with his desire unslaked and his dreams unfulfilled.  
  
 _And_ do _I mean to do that to him, this time?_  Thorin asks himself, half-dreading the answer. From within, there is only the lion's roar of his own desire, and the burning certainty that if he has nothing else in this life—and indeed, he cares not for  _anything_  else—he  _will_  have Bilbo Baggins.  
  
Bilbo pushes up Thorin's tunic with one hand and the other hand immediately goes to the distended front of Thorin's breeches to touch and tease. Thorin exhales heavily, his eyes fluttering shut for a few moments.  
  
“Make love to me, Thorin.  _At last,_  make love to me.” Bilbo's voice quavers slightly, but is mostly firm with determination. When Thorin opens his eyes, it's to Bilbo releasing him from his breeches slowly, leaning up on one elbow to do so. Once he has Thorin freed, Bilbo leans forward to kiss the tip of Thorin's prick, his tongue flicking out to tease the slit till Thorin's groaning, one hand come up to settle on the crown of Bilbo's head.  
  
His hand clenches carefully in Bilbo's curls as that candy-sweet mouth envelopes a goodly portion of his prick in wet, welcoming warmth. Thorin gently thrusts himself forward until Bilbo makes a soft humming sound. Thorin withdraws till nothing but the tip of his prick rests on Bilbo's already-swollen lips, then slowly pushes back in with another groan. Bilbo tickles and teases and sucks him greedily, one small hand keeping himself semi-upright on the bed, the other grasping the bottom half of Thorin's prick.  
  
“No more, my love,” Thorin finally says when, as hard as he's ever been, Bilbo scrapes his teeth oh-so-gently down Thorin's length as Thorin pulls out, the tip of his prick once more resting on Bilbo's lips. “Unless you wish me to spend myself momentarily.”  
  
Bilbo's eyes meet Thorin's far too innocently. “Is my king saying that he does not have the stamina to pleasure me until sunrise? That merely my mouth is enough to quench the desire I see burning in his eyes?”  
  
Thorin blinks. Then with a growl, he's throwing off tunic and undershirt and pinning Bilbo to the bed, amongst the pillows. He doesn't miss the excited flare in Bilbo's eyes as the hobbit squirms underneath Thorin's greater weight.  
  
“To sunrise and beyond, my love,” Thorin promises, grinding down against Bilbo's prick with his own.  
  
“Oh,  _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo breathes, his own eyes fluttering shut now as Thorin leaves a trail of kisses from Bilbo's lips, to his throat, to his chest, to his abdomen. When he reaches Bilbo's prick, but for a soft kiss pressed to the tip, Thorin avoids it and, ignoring Bilbo's desperate whine, instead pushes Bilbo's legs apart. Tracing the heavy bollocks with his finger, Thorin eventually takes them in hand, squeezing and fondling them until Bilbo's thrashing amongst the pillows.  
  
When Thorin senses Bilbo's right near the edge of climax, he withdraws his hand and, pressing another kiss to Bilbo's knee, this time, reaches for his night table, and the large and very full phial of oil he'd left there earlier.  
  
He coats both hands generously, and takes Bilbo's prick and bollocks in hand, stroking and fondling slowly, almost soothing, as Bilbo's body backs away from its release. And when Bilbo's panting has turned to mere heavy breathing, and his squinched-shut eyes have opened once more, Thorin smiles and leans up to kiss him.  
  
“Hello, my love,” he whispers, and Bilbo laughs raggedly, breathlessly.  
  
“Is  _that_  all you have to say for yourself?” he demands, thrusting up into Thorin's hands. “You're a shameless tease, you know.”  
  
“Turnabout is fair-play.”  
  
“I wasn't  _teasing_ , I was . . . getting you in the mood.”  
  
Thorin quirks an eyebrow. “Any more in the mood and you'd have shortly found yourself very disappointed.”  
  
“You could never disappoint me, my king,” Bilbo says simply, smiling up at Thorin in a very besotted manner. One that Thorin is certain he mirrors.  
  
Rather than pour out the contents of an over-full, but not terribly poetic heart, Thorin simply steals another kiss and reaches for the oil again. Once more he coats his hand—but the left one, only—before grasping his prick gingerly, aware that at this point, practically anything could set him off.  
  
As he strokes himself with the slippery stuff, Bilbo's eyes remain glued to him, wide and wanting. The hobbit even takes himself in hand, stroking himself just as gingerly as Thorin is—copying his motions almost exactly.  
  
When Thorin's had all the preparation he can bear, he pushes Bilbo's right leg up and out and Bilbo, for his part, settles his weight mostly on his back. Thus Thorin has an excellent view of the only place he yearns to be anymore.  
  
Brushing one oily finger down the strip of skin behind Bilbo's bollocks, he lets his finger linger at the tiny pink pucker twitching in anticipation as he rubs his finger around its outermost edge.  
  
Bilbo moans, bringing his right and left legs up to his chest, holding them there with his hands hooked behind his knees. “More, Thorin,” he begs, and Thorin nods, forgetting that Bilbo cannot, in this position, see him.  
  
But it doesn't matter, for he's shortly easing the tip of his finger into the tight, hot, fluttering entrance, biting his own lip when Bilbo cries out a strangled: “ _Yes! My king, yes!_ ”   
  
It's not long before Thorin's finger has gone as deep as it can, and is stroking that small spot inside Bilbo that has him crying out repeatedly, his body flushed and broken out in a fine sweat.  
  
“Now, my lord . . . please. . . .” he moans, his entire body shaking and shivering. Thorin kisses Bilbo's prick again, murmuring:  
  
“I cannot yet. I must prepare you properly, first, so that I do not hurt you while trying to love you,” Thorin adds, lest Bilbo think he means to go back on his word.  
  
“How much longer till you take me?” Bilbo asks breathlessly, his voice shaking like his body. “I don't know how much longer I can hold off, to be honest.”  
  
“At least long enough for me to get another finger inside you to stretch you,” Thorin answers plainly. “And then . . . you'll hopefully be ready.”  
  
Bilbo laughs, a panting, breathless chuckle. “Thorin, I've been ready since the night we met.”  
  
Which is enough to make Thorin groan and close his eyes for long moments, till he's won control of himself once more.  
  
Then he's withdrawing his finger from Bilbo's clutching body, taking a steadying breath, and pushing once more against the now slightly-swollen pucker with  _two_  fingers.  
  
Bilbo gasps and groans, every muscle in his body instinctively clenching tight to block the intrusion . . . before Bilbo clearly forces himself to relax. And he does, slowly but surely, relax even the muscles blocking Thorin's fingers, until the tips of those fingers slide decidedly  _in_.  
  
“ _Thorin_. . . .” Bilbo grits out, and: “Don't stop.”  
  
“Am I hurting you?”  
  
“ _Don't stop_.”  
  
“I  _am_  hurting you?”  
  
Bilbo makes a frustrated sound. “Of course it hurts a bit—you're pushing two big, thick dwarf-fingers into a space that's not even the width of a tin whistle!  _Yes_ , there's going to be  _some_ discomfort, but that doesn't mean you should  _stop_!”  
  
“But—”  
  
“Stop,” Bilbo says very clearly, and very precisely, “and I'll divorce you, citing irreconcilable differences.”  
  
A valid way to escape a newly signed eternally-binding marriage contract—even if that contract is with the king—which does, indeed, offer a ninety-day walk-away-free clause.  
  
Bilbo had, apparently, been paying better attention to Balin than Thorin had thought.  
  
Sighing, Thorin slowly, s-l-o-w-l-y inches his fingers forward, gently scissoring them. “You must tell me if the . . .  _discomfort_  becomes too much, my love.”  
  
“Seeing as I'm shortly to have your prick—which is rather larger than two of your fingers—inside me, don't expect me to cry 'uncle' just yet, Thorin.” Bilbo snorts then hisses and swears as Thorin's fingers slide in a bit more than he means them to. Thorin is immediately solicitous.  
  
“Have I hurt you?”  
  
“ _No!_  In fact . . . could you perhaps move a little faster?” Bilbo asks quite shyly. Then almost commands. “And while you're at it, you  _could touch me_.”  
  
And Thorin could kick himself, seriously, for forgetting that  _pleasure_  is indeed a part of _preparation_. Instead of kicking himself, though, he takes Bilbo's flagging erection in hand and strokes it slow and tight, till Bilbo's fully hard again and murmuring Thorin's name like a prayer. Till Thorin's fingers have gone as far as they can and are brushing against Bilbo's spot as they scissor back and forth.  
  
A few light brushes later, and Bilbo's body is beginning to shake as if he's ready to come. Sensing that backing off until the hobbit calms once more will  _not_  go over well, this time, Thorin carefully removes his fingers and positions himself and Bilbo so that his prick is sliding past that strip of skin, to Bilbo's entrance.  
  
Bracing himself over Bilbo, looking down at the place where there bodies will shortly be joined, Thorin takes himself in hand and another steadying breath before guiding the tip of his prick forward, teasing lightly against puffy pink flesh.  
  
“ _Yes_. . . .” this from Bilbo, whose eyes are squinched shut again.  
  
Though his logic tells him to continue easing slowly forward, Thorin's instinct tells him that he must, at least until he's more than brushing Bilbo with his prick, move faster. So, with one sharp, controlled thrust forward, Thorin drives the first inch of his prick into Bilbo's body, causing them both to cry out.  
  
When Thorin can think to speak again, his own panting makes such an aim nearly impossible. But he manages. His eyes are tightly closed, teeth gritted together, body held tight to prevent him from coming instantly into the hot, tight channel that even now clenches around and accepts him with flutters and twitches.  
  
“Are you . . . alright. . . ?”  
  
Bilbo—also panting—moans a little. “I . . . I  _think_  so. . . .” he laughs a little shakily. “But I think I'd be better if you did that again, only harder and for a bit longer.”  
  
“Oh, my love,” Thorin grits out, trying his best once more not to give in to his basest instincts and simply  _fuck_  his consort blind. But Bilbo cranes his neck up and opens his eyes. They're bright and sparkling with equal parts desire and exasperation.  
  
“Thorin,” he says calmly, letting go of one knee to reach out and caress Thorin's cheek with damp, gentle fingers. “You must trust me when I say:  _You won't hurt me._  You never could. You never  _would_.”  
  
Leaning forward till their foreheads touch, Thorin sighs. “Never have I desired anyone or anything the way I desire you. I fear that desire will cause me to be ungentle and hasty and—”  
  
“My king,” Bilbo whispers, tugging lightly on one of the braids at Thorin's temple. “Has it ever occurred to you that after months of close-calls and near-misses,  _I_  might  _desire_  to be taken that way?”  
  
Bilbo bucks his hips forward, hitching himself a little further along down Thorin's prick causing them both to hiss, now, and Thorin to bear them both back to their bed with his weight. Before Bilbo's head even touches the pillows, Thorin's instinct has him pushing forward—but  _slowly_ —into Bilbo's clasping heat.  
  
“Bilbo . . . my beloved,” Thorin murmurs—almost croons, kissing his moaning, gasping consort's already kiss-swollen lips. Bilbo is folded neatly in half under Thorin's heavier body, his legs spread wide and pushed up high. His eyes are a blurred shine under Thorin's as Thorin's prick sinks deeper.  
  
This slow, sweet slide into Bilbo's body is the most exquisite torture Thorin has ever experienced. Muscles flutter and twitch, clench and caress him, urging him deeper and faster.  
  
 _Harder_.  
  
After an eternity of careful-going—and a quickly spiraling pleasure greater than he's ever known—Thorin is finally  _in_  as deep as he can go, squeezed tight by the incredible  _pressure_  of Bilbo's tight body. The  _inescapable_  pressure . . . inescapable but for the fact that Thorin  _can_  escape . . . though he does not wish to. He  _wishes_  nothing more than to remain in this blessed haven forever.  
  
And yet. . . .  
  
Bilbo groans loudly, not entirely in pleasure, as Thorin pulls out a bit faster than he means to, all in his desperate desire to seek out Bilbo's perfect heat again. To find it and find it and find it, and thus make it truly his, at last.  
  
Then his conscience—long silent, and long-since thought absent—gives him pause before he would drive his hard, needy, aching flesh back into the only home it will desire ever after.  
  
 _You won't hurt me. You never could. You never_ would, Bilbo had said, and though he, himself, had  _not_  said it, it is a promise Thorin Oakenshield would ever keep.   
  
So Thorin rests his head briefly on Bilbo's knee, pressing a kiss to it, against the faded remnant of an old scar. Then he closes his eyes and simply breathes, attempting to recover his self-control and his sense of responsibility.  
  
His sense of  _time and place_. For there  _is_  a time and  _will be_  a time to  _fuck_  his consort, but that time is not  _now. Now_  is about something else entirely. . . .  
  
“Thorin? Is everything—” Bilbo begins worriedly and Thorin leans in to once again steal a kiss before Bilbo can finish his question. He lingers with ardor-driven desperation at lips that are still as sweet as innocence, even as Thorin takes Bilbo with another thrust, as slow and gentle as he can bear to be.  
  
“You are . . .  _overwhelming_ , my consort,” Thorin breathes shakily against that perfectly sweet mouth. “I am . . . fighting for control of myself for  _both_  our sakes.”  
  
Bilbo lays his head back into the pillows, smiling serenely. His fingers slip from Thorin's cheek to his lips. “Perhaps, for once, you need to  _lose control completely_  . . . for  _both_  our sakes. I promise,” he's quick to add again, but solemnly. “I promise you will  _not_  do anything either of us will regret. You won't hurt me.”  
  
Thorin shakes his head once. “You are so . . . small and delicate and comely. So  _perfect_. I would not besmirch that comeliness and perfection. Nor would I besmirch your innocence or your honor.”  
  
Smiling tenderly, Bilbo sighs. “You  _love me_ , my lord, as no one ever has. You could never besmirch me in any way. Your love only makes me stronger, better, and happier. Can you not see, my love?” He presses a gentle kiss to the lips he'd so recently caressed. “You are my beginning and my end. My  _completion_  in every sense of the word . . . please, husband . . . _please_.”  
  
Rendered utterly and finally speechless, Thorin merely nods, sucking another kiss from that delectable mouth—he's almost literally helpless to do anything else when Bilbo is so temptingly close—one that's reverent and slow. His hands settle on Bilbo's ankles, pushing shapely legs even higher and wider. Bilbo's eyes become saucers and he quite obviously braces himself as best he can amongst scattered pillows and bunched-up sheets. And just in time, too, for Thorin's thrust, which immediately follows, is indeed quite implacable.  
  
Inescapable.  
  
Bilbo wails, letting go of his legs to grab onto Thorin's effort-corded arms. Thorin, meanwhile, groans as sensation assaults his body, like the prickling of ten thousand heated needles all over his skin, and a sweat breaks out over him. He pulls out slowly, only to drive himself home again, fast and hard.  
  
“ _Husband_ ,” Bilbo exhales as his wide, dilated gaze locks on Thorin's, who is spurred on by the desire in his consort's eyes to move faster and harder, still. And all the while he, himself, searches for the spot that makes Bilbo cry out so wantonly, so needily. And when he finds it—sooner, rather than later—a cry of pleasure and yearning so shameless and desperate, it's almost despairing, is torn from Bilbo's throat. His body instantly stiffens, then goes limp under Thorin, who redoubles his efforts.  
  
“Oh, my king,” Bilbo sighs, his eyes still wide, but unseeing. “Oh, my love . . .  _just like that_  . . . don't stop. . . .”  
  
“I won't, my love . . . my precious gem,” Thorin promises, repeatedly driving himself into Bilbo's sweetly surrendering body and doing his best to hit  _that spot_  every time. And hit it he  _does_ , more often than he misses, judging by Bilbo's enthusiastic response and the hot, hard prick pressed between their bodies.  
  
Over and over does Thorin take his consort, even after Bilbo has stiffened once more, gasped, then stilled, spilling wet heat between them. Even after Thorin's gone beyond thinking, rational being to mere pleasure machine, pumping his fevered, angry flesh in and out of Bilbo's tight, slick channel.  
  
Even after Bilbo's moaning and trembling on the cusp of another release, Thorin still works toward his first one, ever at the precipice of his climax, but unable to fall over the edge.  
  
Finally, Bilbo lets go of Thorin's arms to wrap his own around Thorin's neck and pull him into a deep, thorough kiss, his tongue darting at first teasingly, then forcefully into Thorin's mouth in simulation of the way Thorin's prick is thrusting into Bilbo's body.  
  
Shortly thereafter, Thorin groans again, and his thrusts begin to lose rhythm—though not force—as his body jerks and spasms its way to climax.  
  
But what sends him out of the kiss and at last roaring over that elusive precipice is when, for the second time, Bilbo's muscles clench spasmodically around his prick as the hobbit's body prepares to come once more.  
  
Suddenly Thorin's body is rendered equally tense and as stiff as his prick. Time reaches a stand-still as his eyes open and meet Bilbo's own for one bare, all-knowing instant.  
  
And in that bare, all-knowing instant, their eyes communicate a love as powerful as it is eternal. That instant resounds through all their lives, from the first and longest joining of their paths:  
  
( _“You would die_ again _for love of me, daughter of Thingol?” he had demanded, his despair and elation at being alive and with her whom he loved disguised as anger and incredulity. And her_ eyes _. . . like living jewels . . . like pieces of evening sky fallen to Arda, had laughed at him, and she'd pulled him into a dance he'd been unable to resist, singing to him all the while.  
  
“No, son of Barahir, I will _not _die for you . . . but I_ will live _for you. For as long as you will have me,” she'd interwoven with the words of her song, and he, mightiest of Men, had_ trembled _and gone to his knees before her as she, ever joyous, laughed aloud and knelt with him as he wept, kissing his face all over, like a child.  
  
His treasure . . . his Nightingale . . . his Luthien. . . .  
  
“For-ever, then,” he'd whispered, broken open and made a humble supplicant once more before the fairest of them all. “I would have you for-ever.”  
  
“Then have me,” she'd whispered, turning her lovely face up to his own for a kiss. And Beren—as ever, lovestruck—had helplessly obliged her, his despair and anger leaving him as always they had when _she _touched him. . . ._ )  
  
To the briefest:  
  
( _“Might as well let him tag along, Thor. Must be dead-boring being stuck with a nanny and a baby all bloody day,” the other boy had said peaceably, meeting Thorin's eyes with merry, ordinary-brown ones. He'd placed a hand briefly on Thorin's shoulder, before Thorin could march Frerin, by the arm, back to the nursery, where the nanny was taking care of Dis, and should've also had an eye on Frerin.  
  
And Thorin, who'd had something of a . . . _fondness _for this brown-eyed, auburn-haired boy—a fondness that was, Thorin had just been beginning to realize, returned—had dropped Frerin's arm and glowered at both boy and brother before stalking toward the Great Hall, and thence the great outdoors.  
  
“Fine. But if you want him along so much, _you _keep an eye on him,” he'd grunted, fighting off a fierce blush and shrugging the still-tingling shoulder the other boy had touched. Then Thorin had lead his five friends, and his annoying little brother—who was chattering away at his new best friend and holding his hand, swinging it as they went along . . . and the brown-eyed boy, good-hearted soul that he'd been and ever would be, had allowed it with an indulgent smile—out to the foothills surrounding the Lonely Mountain.  
  
And all the way to that first hill—seemingly as tall as the Lonely Mountain, itself—Thorin had felt those ordinary-brown eyes upon him, laughing at him and with him, as ever they had. . . ._)  
  
To their present, in which all of this is communicated—remembered and forgotten—in the space of one bare instant.  
  
Then eye contact and communication are broken as they both come at the same moment: Thorin's roar is suddenly muffled in the hollow between Bilbo's neck and collarbone . . . Bilbo is gasping, and choked cries are coming from high in his throat as his blunt nails find purchase in Thorin's shoulder and the back of Thorin's neck.  
  
And that is all Thorin knows for a long while, so wrapped and held prisoner is he in pleasure's iron chains . . . so high he soars on the wings of his bliss as even his life-force, it seems, is drawn from him. And if he should die in this moment, he would die regretting only that he had not shared a million such moments with his consort. . . .  
  
Eventually, released from his intense release, Thorin collapses on top of Bilbo with a breathless, helpless grunt. Bilbo huffs out a near-silent snort of laughter and wraps his arms and legs around Thorin, soothing the neck and shoulder his nails had so recently scored.  
  
When at last, some sense returns to Thorin, he carefully pulls his still half-hard prick out of Bilbo's damp, shaking body, soothing his hissing—no doubt sore—hobbit with gentle kisses to his throat and lips. Then he rolls to the side, off of Bilbo, but pulling said consort with him.  
  
Bilbo goes limply, bonelessly, sprawling atop Thorin like a blanket made of hobbit.  
  
“Simply terrible, that was,” he mumbles against Thorin's shoulder in a gust of moist air and brush of warm lips. “Never to be repeated.”  
  
Suddenly grinning—quite unable to help himself—Thorin slides one hand down from its resting place on Bilbo's back, to the still-so-tempting curve of his backside. Bilbo yelps when Thorin gives the aforementioned backside a hearty smack to the left cheek then squeezes it possessively.  
  
“And what, pray tell, was  _that_  for? Hasn't my arse withstood enough for one evening?” Bilbo asks, looking up at Thorin. His lips are twitching as if he would laugh again and Thorin's heart skips a beat or several.  
  
“Hmm,” he murmurs with mock-consideration. “Not as much as it's  _going_  to withstand.”  
  
Bilbo gazes hungrily at Thorin, all wide, starry eyes and mussed curls, and licks his lips and grins.  
  
“Have I your word on that, majesty?”  
  
Thorin's reply is to roll them both over again, so that he's atop his precious burglar and pushing his legs up and out once more.  
  
“You have my solemn vow, highness,” Thorin promises, taking Bilbo's lips in a long, teasing kiss that sees the full return of Thorin's erection and, shortly thereafter, the return of Bilbo's desperate cries as he's again, taken by his husband.  
  
And so the night—and much of the next morning—passes.


	23. Dawn of a New Age 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See the notes/warnings. Plenty of stuff happens, but there is a major character death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: So not mine, it's criminal . . . perhaps literally. . . .  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. MENTIONS MADE OF PAST NON-CON. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

Three days hence, on the morning Thorin and his troop are to set out from Erebor and off on several days relatively easy ride to the edges of Thranduil's kingdom—straight into the Defiler's trap—Thorin awakens just as the tip of his prick is engulfed in slick, clutching heat.  
  
At first he doesn't even open his eyes—cannot, not even for the sweetly wanton and determined look that is no doubt on his consort's face—the sensations are so intensely pleasurable, as Bilbo slowly and with many a stuttered breath, impales himself on Thorin's eager prick.  
  
But Thorin's hands find Bilbo's thighs once the hobbit is seated and Thorin's prick is all the way _in_. He opens his eyes to Bilbo gazing back at him, hot-eyed and half-lidded. His hands, with which he'd been bracing himself on Thorin's thighs as he tried to catch his breath, come up to settle on Thorin's hands. His own prick is, though untouched, hard and erect and flushed.  
  
Squeezing Bilbo's thighs, Thorin struggles part of the way upright. Bilbo leans forward and meets him half-way in a kiss that's slow and gentle. Thus, Thorin does  _not_  roll them both over and simply take his hobbit hard and fast—which Bilbo seems to enjoy as much as Thorin does—or even make love to Bilbo gently and lovingly, till tears run from his wide-open eyes and his whispered  _I love you, Thorin_ s color the air like a perfume.  
  
No, instead, Thorin aides Bilbo's obvious desire and grasps his hobbit by his waist. Bilbo raises his body a little off of Thorin's prick, then makes a frustrated huff. “Help me, love,” he breathes, meeting Thorin's gaze once more, his own steady and direct.  
  
And Thorin  _does_  help. By easily lifting Bilbo by his waist until only the tip of his prick remains inside Bilbo's body . . . then he's pulling Bilbo back down neither fast nor slow, and as steady as the gaze that still holds him.  
  
Bilbo hums happily. “Again, love,” he sighs, and Thorin is more than happy to oblige. And oblige. And oblige. Until Bilbo's head is hanging and his eyes are closed in concentration for several minutes as he shifts and swivels his hip incrementally while Thorin raises and lowers him.  
  
Suddenly he gasps, his eyes flying open wide and unseeing. Thorin smiles, squeezing his consort's waist. “There?” he asks, rather unnecessarily, and Bilbo nods, his evening sky-eyes meeting Thorin's hungrily as he licks his lips.  
  
“ _Right_  there, my king.”  
  
Grinning, now—as he has done for much of the past three days—Thorin clutches Bilbo's hips and  _now_  he begins to  _thrust_.  
  


*

  
  
After such a lovely assignation, Thorin is loathe to get up and prepare for this hunt.  
  
But get up he does, slipping from Bilbo's gently restraining arms.  
  
“Don't, my lord. Please . . . don't go,” his hobbit whispers, eyes shining with unshed tears. This is the closest they've come to acknowledgeing their imminent parting during the past three days, and Thorin's heart breaks not for himself, but for his consort, whose heart he swore to  _never_ break. Whom he would deny  _nothing_.  
  
Except  _this_. For this, he would break  _both_  their hearts and see them possibly separated for the rest of this lifetime.  
  
A lifetime spent alone in the Halls of Waiting . . . without his lovely burglar. . . .  
  
And Bilbo is  _so very_  lovely, even in his fear and dread. Simply lovely . . . so thoroughly debauched and yet still sweetly innocent, sprawled amongst the scattered pillows and askew sheets. Thorin wants nothing more than to climb back into their comfortable bed and do as he has done for the past seventy-five-odd hours: love his hobbit as fiercely and frequently as possible.  
  
“I understand why you feel you must go,” Bilbo goes on lowly. “But I cannot be happy that you _are_  going. You are a mighty and skilled warrior, my king, but I fear for you, nonetheless. I fear for  _myself_  . . . that Azog will take from me the joy that I have wrested back from him at such great pains.”  
  
Thorin says nothing till all that's left to don is his boots. He crosses from guarderobe to bed and sits on the edge, dropping the boots in front of his bare feet, and burying his face in his hands, suddenly exhausted and near tears himself.  
  
How can he possibly go? Even though he needs  _must_ , how  _can_  he?  
  
 _Because I am not simply a dwarf in love, I am also a king with a duty to perform. A duty that will, incidentally, at last render my love safe. I must do this for him and for all whom Azog has wronged. I_ can _go. I_ will _go._  
  
“Do not make this leave-taking any more difficult than it already is, my love. I beg you,” Thorin whispers shakily into his hands, as a few tears do, indeed, escape his imprisoning eyelids. Bilbo is instantly wrapping panic-tight and desperation-strong arms around him. Thorin sits up to accept the embrace, reaching back to run his fingertips over Bilbo's soft cheek.  
  
“Forgive me, love?” Bilbo asks contritely, and Thorin sighs.  
  
“There is nothing to forgive. Only a terrible circumstance that must be corrected. And  _will_.”  
  
“I just wish someone else could do the correcting,” Bilbo says and laughs miserably. Thorin sighs again.  
  
“I will never let Azog take anything from you ever again, my gem. Especially not myself.” He leans back in Bilbo's arms, sighing again when Bilbo kisses his hair tenderly. “He will be accorded the king's justice and when he is at last shuffled loose of this mortal coil to join his wretched forebears in the Abyss, we will both at last know peace.”  
  
“Will we?” Bilbo is the one to sigh, this time, leaving a trail of kisses from Thorin's temple to his shoulder. “Just promise me you'll return to me. That you won't leave me to face all the long years of my life alone.”  
  
And Thorin means to.  
  
Thorin  _wants_  to.  
  
But . . . Thorin  _cannot_.  
  
Bilbo must surely realize this, for his breath hitches and the hitch turns into a near-silent sob.  
  
“I mean to see justice done, my love. But there is a chance that Mahal may still call me to the Halls of Waiting—”  
  
“Then know that I will surely follow you there, as night follows day. For now that you are mine and I am yours, I cannot and  _will not_  live without you,” Bilbo says solemnly, and with an earnestness that frightens Thorin, and makes him fear for his love's life more than he fears for his own.  
  
“Say not such things, my beloved,” Thorin murmurs soothingly as Bilbo lays his head on Thorin's shoulder. Thorin, for his part, can only stare into the suddenly blurred orange light of the fire. . . .  
  
“I speak only the truth of my heart, husband,” Bilbo whispers, and that whisper is choked out around a throat full of tears. “If the hunt goes ill for you, my lord, I will see you interred and entombed with all the honor and dignity and pomp due Durin's greatest heir . . . but the night of the final ceremony will find me following you to your Halls of Waiting. And Yavanna help the god that tries to keep me out.”  
  
This is said so grimly, and with such determination, Thorin finds himself chuckling even as he cleaves closer to his precious burglar, pulling Bilbo's arms tighter around him.  
  
“Don't laugh at me, Thorin. I'm not being funny,” Bilbo says angrily, starting to pull away. But Thorin turns and captures the upset hobbit in his arms, pulling him close, and as tight as can be, despite Bilbo's token resistance.  
  
“It is not you I am laughing at, beloved, but at the god or gods foolish enough to take you on. I laugh at the idea that  _anything_  could separate us for very long.” Thorin kisses Bilbo's hair. “I would gladly have you by my side wherever I am—presuming I don't wind up in the Abyss—”  
  
“Never!” Bilbo says, as if personally offended at such an idea. Such faith in him makes Thorin feel . . . as if he could never leave the arms wound so tightly around him.  
  
But he will.  
  
“I would not have you end your life before your time, my love. I would have you live each day you are given to its fullest, enjoying them for us both. Promise me this, Bilbo Baggins. Promise me that should the hunt go ill, you will at least  _try_  to carry on. To live and love and . . . hold to the dreams we have for Erebor, for you alone know my heart and mind as no other, and would, I believe, help guide my heir and my Council in the days following my passing.  
  
“Promise me you will do this,” Thorin asks, and Bilbo sighs again, looking up to search Thorin's eyes.  
  
“Only if you promise me I won't need to,” he at last retorts, his eyes as stubborn and determined as ever.  
  
And to that, Thorin has no answer he can in good faith make. So he receives no answer in kind.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin's troop leaves shortly afer sunrise.  
  
Riding with him out to the last of the northern foothills are his consort, his heir, his sister, and the rest of the fellowship, minus Dwalin.  
  
Next to him, riding to his right, is Fili, looking pale and wan. To Thorin's left rides Bilbo, looking much the same, but for his red nose and eyes. Behind the three of them ride the rest of the fellowship and Dis. Not a word passes between them, nor the troop of warriors at their back.  
  
The breath from all their mouths still plumes out faintly white, despite the melting of the ice and snow around them. The ground underfoot is a slushy, muddy morass from which the first brave bits of green poke curious, careful shoots. Those shoots have been rewarded with an unusually sunny, unseasonably warm day.  
  
Spring, though only recently arrived, has a definite foothold on the land, and despite the harshness of this winter, that foothold is both early and strong.  
  
When at last the foothills have been left behind and Mirkwood can be seen in the distance as a dense line of green that beggars the small woodlands and bits of forest in between it and Erebor's foothills, Thorin brings his pony to a stop. Everyone else follows suit, but only Dis and the fellowship dismount with him.  
  
Bilbo is immediately in Thorin's arms, shivering, but kissing all the awkward and likely unreassuring words from Thorin's lips. His own lips are, as always, honey-sweet, but a bit chilled because of the lingering cold of the early morning in early spring. But his mouth itself is warm and welcoming, as always, and Thorin explores it with his customary zeal and abandon. Till Bilbo breaks the kiss to whisper in that choked way: “Be careful, husband. And be canny.”  
  
“Always,” Thorin replies, pulling Bilbo close and leaning his chin on the hobbit's head. His eyes then tick to Fili, who is standing nearby with Bofur. The pair are holding hands, and while Fili stares unhappily at the ground, Bofur only has eyes for Fili. And the love and affection and _worry_  that shines out of Bofur's changeable eyes would be obvious even to a blind person.  
  
 _Well,_  Thorin thinks with equal parts dismay and relief.  _It looks as if Fili's patience has paid off, after all . . . I wish him joy of his love, and a long life in which to enjoy it._  
  
“Fili,” he says aloud, gruffly, and his nephew looks up, normally merry blue eyes grim and uneasy. But they meet Thorin's steadily. He squeezes Bofur's hand once, before letting go and stepping forward.  
  
“Yes, your majesty?”  
  
Thorin almost flinches at the honorific. For though proper under the circumstances, he realizes he will  _always_  prefer  _Uncle_.  
  
Unwinding one arm from around his hobbit, Thorin reaches out to clasp Fili's shoulder. He can think of nothing to say . . . nothing other than: “Should this hunt go ill for me, wisely and justly may your reign begin and end.”  
  
“As yours will be remembered for its wisdom and justice, my king.” Fili bows his head respectfully.  
  
Thorin smiles, his hand coming up to cup Fili's cheek briefly . . . then he's turning to Kili, who steps forward almost defiantly.  
  
“Have you any further orders for me, my lord?” he asks rather stiltedly and in a resigned manner, no doubt still put out that Thorin will not only not allow him—Captain of Erebor's archers and  _family_ , no less—to come along on this hunt, but that Thorin had sent Tauriel off as a scout with Dwalin's flanking troop.  
  
Now, Thorin sighs, clasping his younger nephew's shoulder. “No, Kili. No further orders. But have you no kind word to send me on?”  
  
Kili's angry eyes meet Thorin's finally, and some of that anger is replaced by concern.  
  
“Take more archers. At least  _one_  more,” he says at last, and, relenting: “Barring that, come back alive, Uncle. Fili's years away from being fit to rule.”  
  
“Won't catch  _me_  disagreein',” Fili says fervently from a few feet away, leaning back in Bofur's arms.  
  
Thorin squeezes Kili's shoulder again and lets go. Kili bows and backs away to stand with his brother, who throws an arm around him.  
  
Thorin turns next to Balin, extending his hand. Balin takes it with a sigh. “You don't have to do this, laddie,” he says softly and without hope. Thorin simply smiles and says: “Lead the Council wisely in my absence, old friend.”  
  
“Aye, my king.”  
  
And finally, Thorin's sister steps forward, and Thorin receives the surprise of his life when she abandons her usual stoicism and hugs the side that Bilbo isn't pressed against. She shakes under his arm like a leaf in an autumn zephyr.  
  
“Come back, brother,” she pleads gravely. “We need you. And we  _love_  you.”  
  
“Yes, we do,” Bilbo adds, still shivering almost violently in Thorin's arms. Dis and Thorin glance at each other with identical expressions of worry. Then Dis leans in to whisper in Thorin's ear: “Worry not overmuch, for I will look after him in your absence.”  
  
Thorin  _had_  been worrying. Quite a bit. But now he feels some measure of relief. “I thank you, sister.”  
  
With that, Thorin lets Dis go and she steps back, her eyes slightly reddened, but dry of tears.  
  
“Don't go, Thorin,” Bilbo hitches suddenly, so low it's barely audible, and squeezing Thorin tighter. “ _Stay with me,_  husband. I beg this of you.”  
  
Rather than say  _no_  yet again, Thorin merely kisses Bilbo's hair and murmurs back: “I will return shortly, my beloved.”  
  
“I fear you  _won't_.”  
  
Thorin holds Bilbo back a little to look him in those reddened, tear-wet, but still lovely eyes. When the tears spill over, Thorin brushes them away with his thumb. “No more tears, my love, my own. For I will return within a fortnight. Possibly less. Look to the north for my coming.”  
  
Bilbo searches Thorin's eyes and sighs, himself, bobbing up on his toes to impart a sweet, chaste kiss that's nonetheless passionate and yearning, on Thorin's lips.  
  
“Return to me,” he says, gazing soberly, pleadingly into Thorin's eyes. Thorin nods once, wanting to make promises he has no real control over keeping.  
  
In the end he does not. Merely brushes his fingertips across Bilbo's smooth cheek and supple lips. . . .  
  
Then he's letting go, and turning back to his pony and mounting up.  
  
His consort's gaze burns upon him until distance smothers that fire. And Thorin knows that Fili—or likely Ori—will have, if necessary,  _dragged_  Bilbo back to the Mountain.  
  
Thorin does not glance back.  
  


*

  
  
Over the next several days, Thorin's party moves north, making no attempts at stealth or concealment.  
  
They rest frequently and send ahead the occasional scouts who return with nothing more pertinent to report than a feeling of being watched and followed.  
  
Thorin could tell them that of course that is all they would find: nothing but a fleeting sense of being scouted right back. He could tell them that, until they reach the open maw of Azog's trap, they are as safe as houses despite the feeling of malevolence that lingers about their party.  
  
He could, but he does not. Part of  _Dwalin's_  trap depends greatly on Thorin's troop acting as normally as possible. And that means sending out the occasional scouts and riding if not quickly, then consistently toward their goal.  
  
More than once, Thorin has the feeling, during the long, sleepless watches of the night, that they're being watched by something  _besides_  Azog's scouts and minions. Watched  _and_  followed, and by something or someone that means them no malice whatsoever.  
  
 _This_  feeling, however, Thorin is certain that only  _he_  feels because it is directed, he is  _almost completely_  sure, at himself.  
  
And he cannot shake that feeling. Not that he has tried . . . for some reason, this latter feeling of being watched puts Thorin in mind of his beloved consort—his Bilbo—and being watched by those beautiful, steadfast eyes.  
  
Try as he might, Thorin cannot, once he's had it, set such a thought free of his mind.  
  
He cannot sleep, barely eats, and when his captain spots definite signs of a warg that Thorin should have spotted first, Thorin can only nod his still-absent approval and remark: “It is well, then.”  
  
 _We are for it, now, my love,_  he thinks to the so far benign presence that has followed them since early on the second day. The one that worries and frets for Thorin.  _Close to doom.  
  
Azog's._  
  


*

  
  
It is early on the fifth day, and Thorin's troops have just made careful inroads into Mirkwood, when they hear the sudden, and not far distant sounds of fighting, and the sound of wargs.  
  
Azog's warg-riders have, rather earlier than intended, been surprised by Dwalin's troop. Or perhaps the other way around.  
  
The  _plan_  had been for Thorin's troop to distract Azog and his warg-riders for long enough for Dwalin's troop—having come the long way around and through nearly a full week of hard marching and stealth—to ambush them.  
  
Unless ordered by Thorin, Dwalin would  _never_  deviate from his  _own_  plan. Not when there are lives at stake, and one of those lives is Thorin's. This is Thorin's very thought as his pony paces nervously in the limited space just under the green awning of the trees and behind him, his captain and troop await orders.  
  
 _Never would Dwalin flout my orders unless . . . unless he had no choice,_  Thorin thinks grimly, worried.  _Unless his attempt at stealth failed or . . . was_ expected. . . .  
  
And, oh, Thorin suddenly has a very  _bad_  feeling—worse than previously felt—that he and Dwalin and the troops haven't just ridden into a trap, but ridden into a trap  _within_  a trap.  
  
“Dismount!” he orders, doing the same, himself, for the ponies will be all but useless in fighting the warg-riders in such close quarters—will spook and throw their riders in their haste to be off and away. In fact, there is no guarantee, even with three guards posted to watch the ponies, that the ponies will be there when the troop— _should_  the troop—get back.  
  
So, as one, Thorin's troop creeps into Mirkwood. Throughout their creeping, Thorin feels that sensation of being watched once more—rather, he notices it for the first time in two days. It has been so constant throughout that he'd ceased to notice or be alarmed by it. In fact, it had been comforting, for he sensed the benevolence of the watcher and was content that who- or whatever followed him meant him no harm.  
  
 _Guard and guide us, gentle spirit,_  he thinks quickly as the sounds of fighting and howling grow louder and the sense of his doom grows ever stronger.  
  


*

  
  
Thorin needs only a glance into the large clearing to see that though there are many orcs and a few warg-riders—enough that Dwalin's troop may even be overwhelmed, shortly—there aren't nearly as many as expected. And that of that number, none of those orcs are pale and with an arm made of knives and blades.  
  
Most of Dwalin's stealth-troop are not dead, though there are several bodies around the glade that are not wargs or orcs.  
  
Quietly drawing Goblin-Cleaver, Thorin wades into the fray, mentally prepared to face the doom of his time.  
  
Again.  
  


*

  
  
Having managed to fight his way to Dwalin's side—the older dwarf is clearly in his element—fighting three different orcs at once. He's even egging them on—Thorin nearly grins at the other dwarf's running commentary on the orcs' parentage and lack of fighting prowess.  
  
Despite this lively engagement of the enemy, Thorin takes an orc off Dwalin's hands—by relieving the orc of its head—and sends it to the Abyss and the waiting arms of its comrades.  
  
“Where is Azog?!” Thorin demands when Dwalin's taken care of another one of his dance partners. For none have spotted a pale warg—the original having been so bravely dispatched by Bilbo—with a pale rider.  
  
Without taking his stone-green eyes from his final opponent, the captain of Thorin's personal guard answers tersely: “We've not seen the coward, yet!”  
  
Swearing— _Do not let this journey and these deaths have been in vain_ , he thinks desperately—Thorin turns, taking in the clearing once more. With the arrival of Thorin's troop, though not large, the battle has most certainly tipped in favor of the dwarves. In fact, some of the orcs are even running from their individual fights, disappearing into the depths of Mirkwood, where Thranduil's guards will no doubt have them.  
  
 _Perhaps,_  Thorin thinks wearily, but with a pang of homesickness that nearly floors him. Of  _love_ -sickness that nearly enervates him.  _Perhaps this is for the best. Perhaps it is good that Azog has chosen not to show himself. And perhaps—_  
  
Thorin does not get to finish his thought, for just then his name is called from behind him and across the clearing, all gravel and grating. That sense of preordained doom settles upon him once more, as when the fellowship went to face down the armies beseiging and battling about a newly-won Erebor.  
  
Thorin turns, raising Goblin-Cleaver . . . he turns to face Azog . . . the Defiler.  
  


*

  
  
_Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, heir of Durin and King Under the Mountain, meets Azog, the Defiler, King of Mount Gundabad, in the center of the body-littered glade with a great clash of death-dealing metal. Sparks fly from a ceaselessly glowing Goblin-Cleaver and from the giant ebon sword wielded by the King of Gundabad.  
  
This time, there is no white warg, no fiery pine cones, no Bilbo—no distractions and no saviors to interrupt this battle of diametrically opposed forces.  
  
The King of Erebor is sent reeling back, stumbling to save himself a fall. He catches and rights himself as the King of Gundabad presses his advantage. Erebor then rallies, blocking a mighty blow from Gundabad. But Gundabad merely laughs and turns the repelling blow from Erebor into a spin and follow-through swing of his arm of blades and knives. He catches the King of Erebor glancingly across the chest, but the king is saved by his armor. Nonetheless he is sent reeling back once more, and Gundabad gargles out more orc-laughter, throaty and cruel.  
  
“I will take your head and toss it into the dirt like rubbish, as I did your forefather's,” Gundabad declares in Westron, his chilly blue eyes pinning the King of Erebor. “Then I will take your kingdom, and your gold, and finally your precious halfling. _Again _.”  
  
Erebor's king pales and his body goes utterly still, but for his sword arm, which trembles. Not with fear, but with a great and cold rage.  
  
“You will not speak of him!” Erebor grits out, color returning to his pale cheeks as a hectic crimson flush. He shifts into a ready stance, obviously trying to calm himself. “Nor will you speak of Erebor! For sacred are they both, and pure beyond your understanding and beyond your diseased touch!”  
  
Gundabad smiles, his scarred, moon-white face creasing among many seams and scars.  
  
“Oh, but I _will _speak of them, son of Thrain. Most especially of your halfling . . . shall I remind you of his lovely screams as I took him? As I broke him open?” Gundabad's smile turns gentle and almost fond, in its utter mercilessness. The arm that is blades and knives—heretofore aimed at the King of Erebor, as is his sword of black steel—now drifts up to rest over his heart in a mockery of sentimentality. “I wonder if all halflings are so sweet and delicate . . . so pretty and innocent? Or is it just_ yours _?” Now, that smile turns into a smirk. “When I've used yours up, I shall have to take another to find out.”  
  
Erebor snarls and begins to circle Gundabad, who returns the favor, still mocking Erebor. “After I've taken your kingdom, and placed your head atop your own throne, the first thing I will do will be to reintroduce myself to your little halfling . . . who will very shortly become _my little halfling _. . . for as long as he lasts, anyway. And I guarantee you that won't be for long.”  
  
Now vermillion, Erebor rushes Gundabad. “Never again will you touch him!”  
  
His needling of Erebor having obviously worked, Gundabad's smirk becomes a smile once more as he blocks Erebor's powerful, but hasty blow. But this time the King of Gundabad is driven back, growling and sneering. He, too, rallies, attacking the King of Erebor with sword and arm.  
  
Erebor is, indeed, _fast _, parrying each swing or weathering each blow. He acquits himself well—despite having been put on the defensive by Gundabad's strong, relentless offensive—Goblin-Cleaver a ceaseless blue blur in his skilled grasp.  
  
Around them, the Ereborians are steadily beating back the Gundabadian horde, cutting down their numbers and driving quite a few more of them off into the dim mirkness of Mirkwood. Every being is engaged in their own personal battle. No one has eyes for their king, be it Erebor or Gundabad, except for one. . . .  
  
After long minutes, Erebor has fought Gundabad to a draw. It is now speed against might, respectively. And so the stalemate holds without giving. Until all the battles around them have stilled, and even the captain of the Ereborian king's guard has left off fighting to watch this historic battle between kings, his great war-hammer still raised, but gone quite still.  
  
But for the great clash of swords, the world is one silent, held breath. . . .  
  
Until the King of Gundabad, with a terrific lunge, drives through the King of Erebor's speedy, but faltering defense. And he does so not with his sword, but with his arm of blades and knives. These blades and knives are sharpened to fine edges and points, and one such blade parts not only the leather and wool of Erebor's device and tunic, but also drives apart the rings of his mail armor, razing the skin and puncturing the flesh of Erebor's side.  
  
The King of Erebor grunts and goes to one knee, that blade dragging up his side . . . and lightly across one rib, but scoring it deeply, before Gundabad draws back slightly, while swinging his sword forward, meaning to cleave the King of Erebor in twain the long way.  
  
But Erebor dodges, rolling away and to his knees, slowed slightly by his injury and the pain of his nearly severed rib-bone. At the same time a voice, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once calls his name in tones of fear and horror.  
  
Glancing around, startled and afraid, himself—but not _for _himself—the King of Erebor mumbles as he struggles to his feet: “Bilbo?”  
  
And in his moment of distraction, the King of Gundabad swings on him again, laughing. Erebor barely gets his sword arm—which happens to also be on his damaged side—up just in time to block it: a blow that would have severed arm from body.  
  
However the strength behind that blow is enough to stun his arm and wrist, and the mighty sword Orcrist, called Goblin-Cleaver in the common tongue, falls to the ground with a loud clatter.  
  
At last, complete silence reigns in the glade, and Gundabad smiles.  
  
Raising his jagged black sword, he kicks the Goblin-Cleaver away from Erebor's sudden lunge for it as if it's trash; then he steps on Erebor's wrist, pinning the dwarf-king in place.  
  
“Prepare to meet your fathers, son of Thrain,” Gundabad says smugly, swinging his sword down in one smooth motion, toward Erebor's face—  
  
—only to have that sword stop mere inches from its target with the ring of steel on steel and a shower of sparks. So surprised is the King of Gundabad that he does not instantly follow through with the blow which, had he done so, would have killed the King of Erebor, anyway. There is nonetheless the clatter of a fallen sword once more, and a pained cry that yet again comes from everywhere and nowhere, leaving almost everyone, even Gundabad, looking around for it's source.  
  
Everyone except for the embattled King of Erebor, who's freed his wrist and is scrambling for the Goblin-Cleaver. Recalled to his purpose, the King of Gundabad is but a moment behind him, but that moment is all it takes for Erebor to retrieve his sword and swing it upward in a blow that relieves the orc-king of his right arm at the elbow.  
  
Too stunned to do anything for long moments, Gunadabad sinks to his knees and merely gazes at the blood spurting fom his missing arm as Errebor gets unsteadily to his feet and swings once more. Gundabad turns that stunned gaze to Erebor just in time to see the Goblin-Cleaver take his own head.  
  
His head falls from his body and rolls away into the dust and dirt, like the rubbish it is, and his captainless body slowly crumples forward to the ground. The King of Erebor, breathing hard, lurches out of its way  
  
And thus Azog, King of Mount Gundabad—called the Defiler by many—is done._  
  


*

  
  
Panting, Thorin does not pause to follow the trajectory of the head he'd so valued, once upon a time, not too long ago.  
  
Instead, he immediately turns to the seemingly empty space nearby from which pained moans and hisses have begun to emanate.  
  
“My love?” he says quietly, going to his knees when his toe bumps something solid—something which grunts softly and withdraws. Thorin reaches out at about chest-level with the shaking fingers of his good hand and encounters . . . skin.  _Soft_  skin.  
  
 _Familiar_  skin.  
  
“ _Oh, Thorin,_ ” an equally pained, equally soft, equally  _familiar_  voice whispers.  _Bilbo's_  voice, and a warm gust of air ghosts past Thorin's fingers.  
  
For long moments, Thorin cannot answer—though his mouth works to form one—only stroke a cheek that he cannot see. His mind is quite blank. But after a minute has passed, Bilbo Baggins appears in front of Thorin's surely ensorceled eyes and under his caressing fingertips. He's rumpled and dirty in his traveling clothes, his fur-lined cloak filthy, askew, and torn in places. His hair is messy, lank, and tangled with sticks and leaves.  
  
He looks as if he's been dragged head-first through a briar-patch. He looks—  
  
 _Lovely_ , Thorin's heart sighs, even as his mind finds its voice. “My love—is it truly  _you_? What sorcery is this?” And before Bilbo can do more than open his mouth to answer, Thorin's kissing chapped lips searching for and finding hints of that sweetness he so loves. And upon finding it, he's dropping Goblin-Cleaver to pull Bilbo to him, breaking the kiss when the hobbit inhales and makes a rather agonized moan.  
  
“Are you hurt, my gem?” Thorin asks, sitting back to look Bilbo over again more carefully. This time, he notices the way Bilbo is cradling his right arm to his chest.  
  
“M-my arm . . . I think it's broken,” Bilbo says, blinking up at Thorin worriedly. Then he looks down, his face flushed with embarrassment. “I'm—sorry. I just couldn't let you go off alone. I meant to stay out of it—let you fight your own battle—but I couldn't. I just couldn't.”  
  
This apology is follwed by a sniffle and the falling of a few tears. Thorin reaches out and once again brushes his consort's cheek.  
  
“And it's a good thing you didn't,” Thorin murmurs, smiling wonderingly. “You saved me from Azog. Again,” he adds incredulously, then bows his head deeply, with the utmost respect. “This is a debt I can never repay, Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
That flush increases till Bilbo is beet-red. “Sure, I saved you only after I distracted you in the first place by shouting your name. Days spent invisible and hiding, and I give it all away when it's most necessary to keep it a secret.” Bilbo snorts with self-derision.  
  
“ _How_  were you invisible?” Thorin asks, suddenly recalling this very important fact about his consort's sudden appearance. And he remembers something else, as well. “For many were the times during this journey that I felt a benign attention on me, and I'd pretended, in whimsical moments, that it was  _you_ , but never had I  _dreamed_  that it actually  _was you_  . . . how is this possible?”  
  
Bilbo sighs and opens his mouth—then glances around them at the still staring dwarves and orcs, before turning back to Thorin and smiling wryly.  
  
“It is a long story. For now, my king, let it suffice to say that I burgled more than I bargained for on our quest for Erebor,” he murmurs, and Thorin glances around them, too, frowning grimly. He reaches for Goblin-Cleaver and takes her up, raising her as he gets to his feet.  
  
And, as if a signal's been sent, a goodly portion of the orcs left in the clearing disappear into the underbrush and trees.  
  
The rest continue their fights, but are now outnumbered two to one by dwarves, and the battle soon winds down.  
  
None of those orcs still fighting attempt to take on Thorin, nor do they even approach Bilbo, who is sitting at his feet and staring at Azog's headless body with wide, wondering eyes.  
  
When the last orc has been disembowled, Thorin lowers Goblin-Cleaver and offers Bilbo his hand up. The hobbit takes it and is instantly pulled to his feet, and held close against Thorin's good side. Bilbo finally tears his eyes away from Azog and looks up at Thorin.  
  
“He's  _gone_ ,” he breathes, tears springing to his eyes again as Thorin nods. “ _At last_.”  
  
“Yes, my love. Forever.”  _Justice has been done and_ you _are at last safe. Now, we can move on, at peace with ourselves. . . ._  
  
“You said you'd do it, and you  _did_.” Bilbo laughs a little, his awestruck gaze still on Thorin, shining and adoring. “You rid the world of him, my king.”  
  
“Only with your help. It is as I said: Together, we are unstoppable,” Thorin murmurs, leaning down to kiss Bilbo's dirty, scraped forehead. Bilbo leans against him tiredly.  
  
“Never again will I doubt that, my lord.”  
  
A few moments later, Dwalin approaches them, his curious eyes on Bilbo. “So . . . Gandalf was certainly right about hobbits passing unseen whensoever they choose! How'd you  _do_  that?” he asks, and Thorin glances at Bilbo, who shrugs his good shoulder and smiles.  
  
“Magic,” he says, simply, and Thorin and Dwalin both raise their eyebrows.  
  
Then Dwalin's eyes drift down to Bilbo's cradled arm. “Broken?”  
  
“I'm afraid so,” Bilbo replies with a sigh and a wince. “It hurts enough that it  _should_  be, anyway. But forget all that, it's  _Thorin_  I'm worried about. Azog stuck him a good one in the side with that bloody pigsticker-arm of his, and I saw blood.”  
  
And with this, Bilbo glares up at Thorin accusingly, as if he'd gotten wounded just to make Bilbo mad. Thorin sighs.  
  
“Indeed?” Dwalin turns a similar gaze upon his king and Thorin rolls his eyes.  
  
“It's nothing, really. Barely even twinges,” he says, having forgotten about the wound, for the most part. At the moment, he isn't even in any pain. In fact, there's a warm sort of numbness spreading rather quickly from the wound. A numbness that's made his bottom-most rib, which had been screaming, finally fall silent. “Huh.”  
  
Thorin sheathes Goblin-Cleaver and prods at the torn tunic, chinked armor, and sluggishly droozling puncture.  
  
No pain, whatsoever.  
  
And that's . . . rather odd.  
  
Mildly worried, Thorin opens his mouth to say just that, when suddenly the world lurches, driving Thorin—and incidentally Bilbo—to his knees with a soft moan. His entire left side has gone numb and yet strangely warm. And that sensationless warmth is seeping  _very_  quickly inward.  
  
“ _THORIN_?!” Bilbo—all three of him—shout when Thorin begins to sway. Then he's grunting as he bears up under Thorin's sagging weight.  
  
A moment later, Dwalin's yelling something and Bilbo just keeps saying Thorin's name as he lays Thorin down. Meanwhile, Thorin's heart is skipping beats, as ever it does when Bilbo Baggins touches him. Only instead of beating faster, it's beating slower . . . and slower . . . and slower. . . .  
  
Until finally, with a last, labored beat, it seizes in his chest, causing him to gasp. Or at least his body  _tries_  to gasp, anyway. It doesn't succeed very well, not even managing to inhale.  
  
The last things Thorin sees are Bilbo's frightened eyes— _They've always been the color of the evening sky, except for that one time when they were not_ , Thorin thinks, and does not understand what he means by this—before the world goes quite suddenly dark. . . .  
  


*

  
  
_. . . and he is drifting through that darkness aimlessly . . . for an eternity, before he sees a light, at the end of a seemingly long tunnel. It flickers and changes, like the fire of a hearth or . . . a forge.  
  
He travels toward it, neither walking nor crawling nor running, yet somehow _moving _.  
  
When, after another eternity, he reaches the light, it is to discover that it _is _the light of a forge, alright. And there is a smith working at it, shaping what appears to be a sword, the like of which he has never before seen, so cunningly curved and scored is it.  
  
_ Surely _, he thinks, amazed._ No smith of men, or elves, or even dwarves could make such a blade. . . . _  
  
Thus he is moved to take a closer look at the smith—no, the Smith—who works this Forge.  
  
Tall, he is. Markedly taller than a dwarf, and yet neither man nor elf. His thick brown hair waves to broad, bare, brawny shoulders, and his beard is braided and hangs to just below the top of his leathern apron. Dark, ancient eyes in a square, handsome face are focused solely on the sword being hammered into readiness, and yet . . . he has no doubt that his presence _is _noticed.  
  
That, his presence has been expressly _requested. _  
  
Glancing back down the tunnel whence he came, he can see only darkness . . . though for a moment . . . distant and almost drowned in the lack of light, he can almost make out a familiar figure, small and lost. He can hear it calling his name in tones of hopelessness and bereavement that break his heart. . . .  
  
Turning away from that figure—for it is beyond him, now, bound to a place that is now denied him—he focuses once more on the Smith performing his Art.  
  
Finally, after only half an eternity, the Smith pauses in his work to glance at him with those curious, coal-dark eyes. And he smiles kindly, this Smith, displaying square, even white teeth.  
  
“Thorin II, called Oakenshield,” the Smith says in a surprisingly soft and mellow tenor. “Son of Thrain, son of Thror. Heir of Durin, and King Under the Mountain. Wielder of the great blade Orcrist, Bringer of Justice to the Usurper of Gundabad and Khazad-Dum . . . and last, but certainly not least, beloved of Bilbo Baggins.”  
  
He blushes to hear his names and titles said—with no small amount of amusement and wryness—in that moment caring nothing for any of them, save the final one. The one his broken heart—both halves of it—still clings to. . . .  
  
He shakes his head to clear it of desires he cannot now fulfill and wishes he could do the same to the pieces of his heart. But since he cannot, he distracts himself with the riddle of the Smith. And in so distracting himself, realizes in the next instant not only _where _he is, but with_ whom _.  
  
All else forgotten for the moment, he does not know what to do in this august _Presence _. What to say to this Smith of smiths. So he does the only thing he knows to do: He bows, and addresses the Other with the only titles that matter_ here _.  
  
“Father,” he says, straightening and meeting that dark, divine gaze with his own. “*Mahal.”_  
  


*

  
  
_*And mad ups to Badskippy of AO3, from whom I “borrowed” the idea of using Mahal in a fic. It's a good read,[The Divine Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/74029). It rocks._


	24. Dawn of a New Age 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Mahal have a serious talk. Take my hand and join me on the last two chapters of this fic. Trust me: have I lead you astray, so far?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: For characters that aren't mine, I sure put them through the ringer.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled,” which is on the first page of my Works. Set post the retaking of Erebor. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH MENTIONED. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

_Mahal grins and turns back to His sword, raising His hammer. But He holds off, glancing at Thorin once more. “I think it's ready, don't you?”  
  
Blinking, Thorin stammers. “I know not, my Lord. For never have I seen its equal. Nor would I presume to tell you how to practice the Art you invented.”  
  
Laughing, Mahal lays down His hammer and in a trice has the sword cooling in gusts of steam, in a barrel of water nearby. “We shall have to see, then, after it cools, whether or not it was ready. That was never my strong-suit . . . letting my creations stand on their own merits . . . and knowing when they were ready to do so.” And Mahal winks, causing Thorin to look away and tamp down memories of another who used to wink thus, before such memories overwhelm him.  
  
When at last Thorin can look up once more, the Forge and accoutrements are gone, and in their place is a hearth and two sturdy chairs that have nonetheless seen better days. Mahal is already seated. He extends a hand to Thorin and gestures at the other chair.  
  
“How—?” Thorin begins, stumbling forward on legs that once more exist, though shakily. He prods the chair experimentally, only to find it at least as solid as himself—perhaps more so.  
  
Mahal chuckles and sits back in His chair, which complains just a bit under His solid weight. “Displacement of one set of already-shaped atoms for another set of already-shaped atoms is surprisingly easy. It's working them into another useful or different shape _to begin with _that's hard! Even for a smith!” He says, wiping His brow, and Thorin blinks again, this time quite blankly. Mahal's smile turns wry.  
  
“It's magic, Thorin,” He says gently, shrugging, and Thorin nods his understanding, sitting gingerly in the empty chair, which bears Thorin's own weight without protest. Around them, but for the area of the sooty stone hearth and floor, all is darkness so thick, Thorin's eyes cannot penetrate it. He almost immediately gives up trying, focusing instead on the warmth of the fire . . . a warmth which seems to settle instantly into his marrow, thawing a body he hadn't even realized was cold, even when it had just been returned to him by Mahal's grace.  
  
For long minutes there is nothing but silence as Thorin warms himself and Mahal studies him with open curiosity.  
  
Finally, the God speaks:  
  
“You are all so like Durin, your forebears and especially you, I could have cast you all from his mold,” He says wonderingly, and such a tone from a _God _causes Thorin to look up in surprise. Mahal's seemingly ready smile meets his gaze. “But for one crucial thing, of course, you, son of Thrain, son of Thror, are the very image of your forebears back to the first.” Mahal tilts His head, that curiosity never more apparent. “How is it, I wonder, that you never succumbed to the King's Madness?”  
  
And there is no need for Thorin to ask which madness is the “King's.” For over many years he'd watched it devour his grandfather, until the dwarf who'd helped Thorin's widower father raise three semi-unruly children was all but gone. And in his stead lived only a desire for power and gold that never was slaked, or leavened, even with the loss of Erebor.  
  
Frowning, Thorin is answering before he can stop to ponder such a question as: _How are you not mad? _“Bilbo Baggins,” he says simply, and so saying the name, tastes a sweetness that he well remembers, and on its heels a bitterness that he also remembers, and that is all his own. For ever has he felt such rue since he was young, and when having lost his mother, he soon after lost someone else who'd somehow taken up residence in his heart.  
  
_But this time, I did the leave-taking, did I not? Not he? _Thorin thinks absently, wondering in passing if he'll meet his once best friend and first love, the boy Gholin, in the Halls, or if the boy's been sent on to live another life, with another best friend who loves him. . . .  
  
Then he's sighing and turning his mind quickly back to his God's question. “Ever was I tempted by the gold. By the Arkenstone. By the _power. Tempted _. But ever was I reminded that none of it, not even the Arkenstone, could compare to the greatest treasure I could hope to hold and possess. Never could love of treasure or the treasure itself replace Bilbo Baggins, or the love of him that filled my heart. The_ need. Never _. For I am as weak in this respect as my forebears. I have succumbed to the same Madness. The great difference is in what we call _treasure _.”  
  
“I see,” Mahal murmurs, and Thorin has the strong and sudden feeling that he's just passed a test of some sort. It is a feeling that plagues him even as Mahal goes on rather ponderously. “For never have _I _seen the Madness waiting to manifest more strongly in one of Durin's line, than I saw in you, son of Thrain. So strong were the signs in you—stronger, even, than they were in Thror. But you resisted.”  
  
“I was _refocused _,” Thorin dares to correct his God. But he has never been able to lie, even by omission. “For I am bound by a deep and abiding obsession, still. And its subject shines brighter than ten thousand Arkenstones.”  
  
Mahal's gaze shifts to the fire thoughtfully. “Your consort,” He says softly and Thorin nods.  
  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
  
“It appears that my Lady was right, all along,” Mahal mutters, snorting to Himself, and before Thorin can do more than wonder at this remark, Mahal is looking at him again, somberly. “He fights for you, even now. Even as you knock at Death's door, Bilbo Baggins fights to keep you alive, with the help of Tauriel.”  
  
“Master Baggins will never give up on me,” Thorin says without inflection, though his heart is soaring and falling all at once with a mixture of pride and despair. “Not as long as there is breath in my body.”  
  
“There isn't,” Mahal says gravely, His gaze rather pointed, and Thorin starts. “Indeed, there hasn't been for nearly one full minute. And still he fights for you.”  
  
Thorin lets out a breath he's been holding since he once more had a body to hold it with. “Then I am dead.” It is not a question, but Mahal answers, anyway.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Thorin had known in his mind that this was so, but to now know in his heart. . . .  
  
He buries his face in his hands, too deep in his now unleavened despair to even weep, though his heart sheds tears that even his eyes will never properly express.  
  
“Weep not, son of Thrain,” Mahal says gently, and a large hand settles on Thorin's shoulder. “For you have Master Baggins' word that he will follow you whither you go. Even into death.”  
  
“Yes,” Thorin agrees, his despair tripling at the thought of his lovely hobbit—of one who __was_ made _to love and enjoy life—coming to join him in death before his time. “Even into death he will follow me.”  
  
“Even to _my _Halls, rather than the Lady Yavanna's Fields, where Men and Halflings usually go to rest between lives. And woe betide any that tries to stop him—myself included!” Mahal squeezes Thorin's shoulder and chuckles again.  
  
“Ever is he loyal, my Lord. The most loyal person I have ever known. He meant only to demonstrate that loyalty to me. If he spoke out of turn and offended you—” Thorin begins, looking up, despair for the moment forgotten in defense of his consort, even against his _God _. But Mahal waves His free hand dismissively, still chuckling—harder than ever, it may be said.  
  
“To speak so out of abiding love is _never _to speak out of turn, Thorin,” He says, smiling warmly, His hand falling slowly away from Thorin. “He would battle Gods to remain by your side. That is no small love, and felt by two lovers not even the Gods would stand between.”  
  
Thorin's brow furrows and hope pierces his despair like afternoon sunlight pierces a filmy curtain. “Then it is as Lord Elrond said? When I promised Master Baggins for-ever. . . ?”  
  
“Neither I, nor the Lady Yavanna, nor Eru, itself, will break that contract,” Mahal promises for Himself and His Cohorts.  
  
Letting out a sigh of pure relief, Thorin cannot help the triumphant grin that spreads across his face or the tears that run down it.  
  
For he may have lost _this _life with his love . . .  but there is still an _eternity _of lives in which to find and love his hobbit.  
  
And find and love Bilbo Baggins he _will _. . .  no matter what he looks like, no matter what he calls himself. For their love _is _eternal.  
  
“At last,” he murmurs, and for a moment—a moment, only—he is murmuring not just for Thorin Oakenshield, but for the mortal man, Beren, son of Barahir, and all the lives between that first and this most recent. “At last, he is mine for-ever. My Nightingale . . . my best friend . . . my precious burglar. . . .”  
  
“Yes,” Mahal agrees mildly, indulgently. “But for-ever is a long way away, and in the meantime there is _this _life to consider and make decisions for.”  
  
Surprised, Thorin frowns again. “But . . . I am dead, am I not? This life is a foregone conclusion, is it not?”  
  
Mahal waves a hand again, as if Thorin's just being silly now. “Here's something your wisest teachers never told you and didn't know, Thorin, son of Thrain: Being dead is a great deal like being  _alive_ , in that it's easily reversible, if you know how.  
  
“And before you ask the obvious question, yes, I _do _know how. So does my Lady Yavanna. But the fact is we very rarely_ do so _. Only in special cases do we reverse the natural order of things. For there is a price that even  _we_  must pay for our interference,” Mahal says with a sigh that turns into a pained smile. “But that is not for you to worry about. For now, all  _you_  must worry about is staying alive once you _are _alive.”  
  
His heart leaping cautiously within him, Thorin stammers out: “My Lord, if you were to return me to this life, I can assure you that I would do my very best to keep it for as long as it is mine to live. And I would live it well: honorably, virtuously, and joyfully.”  
  
Still smiling, Mahal makes a gesture for Thorin to calm down and be silent. “I believe you, Thorin. But there is more to resuming your life than you seem to understand. There are limits to what even I or Lady Yavanna may do.”  
  
Thorin shakes his head. “I don't understand, my Lord.”  
  
Mahal's bushy eyebrows lift and He sighs. “I can return you to life, Thorin, but that's as far as I am allowed to interfere. After that, keeping yourself alive is entirely up to you and those caring for you.” He pauses. “For there's the rather large matter of the poison that's even now, eating its way through your body like a family of starving weasels through a neglected Sunday luncheon.”  
  
Thorin sits back in his chair, mouth dropping open, and Mahal frowns. “Didn't you realize, Thorin? It wasn't the wound Azog dealt you that killed you, but the poison on the blade that did.”  
  
And suddenly Thorin remembers a warm numbness that had spread and spread, till it had overwhelmed him. Had made it impossible for his lungs to even draw in a single, slight breath. . . .  
  
He shudders and inches his chair back from the fire. From _its _warmth. Despite the chill of the darkness at his back, Thorin decides that he has had quite enough of warmth.  
  
“Poison,” he whispers, and Mahal nods compassionately, His eyes worried as they settle upon Thorin.  
  
“Yes. Should you choose to be sent back—and yes, the choice _is _yours, Thorin. It is ever yours—you will return to fevers and sicknesses—to _weakness _and enervation—such as you've never experienced. And for many months.” Mahal's gaze is now stern and sympathetic all at once. “Weakness and enervation I cannot promise you that you will live through, for all your trying. And there will be_ pain _. Like none you've ever experienced. You will, at times, wish you_ had _died. For this poison attacks muscles and nerve endings without prejudice, and will likely do so to you until you die in agony. And this, perhaps, will happen despite your indomitable willpower, Lord Elrond's healing skills, and . . .  your Bilbo Baggins' matchless love.”  
  
For a few moments, Thorin is overwhelmed and downcast . . . but then he latches onto something Mahal had said and looks up, blinking away tears. “Lord Elrond—you mentioned Lord Elrond?”  
  
Mahal nods once. “He's been sent for—that was the first thing Master Baggins ordered done in your name before you became fever-ridden, for he would not have you moved even to return you to Erebor, in case continued motion hastened the spread of the poison—which it would have,” He adds, smiling briefly. “He's a smart little thing, your hobbit.”  
  
“Very,” Thorin replies solemnly, earnestly, then bites his lip. “Can Lord Elrond, should he arrive in time, cure this toxin?”  
  
“He can try.”  
  
Sighing, Thorin wipes his clammy brow. “He is . . . my friend. I trust and believe in his abilities.”  
  
“As you should.” Mahal smiles approvingly, but that smile fades quickly and completely. “But that is not all that we are counting on to save you, remember. _You _must, in effect, help to save yourself, and continue to do so long enough for him to get to you. And in the spirit of honesty, the odds of you surviving for even the next three to four days are . . . slim to none. Even when your not inconsiderable will is brought into the mix.”  
  
Thorin closes his eyes and lets the last of his hope—of living, and living a long life with his love—drain away. Of course there was never any hope. Just a fool's hope. One Thorin had been doing without. And it hurts that much more to have had it returned to him, only to have it be summarily crushed.  
  
“Who will save Thorin Oakenshield from a doom from which he cannot save himself?” he murmurs, opening his blurry eyes to the answerless fire and its merrily leaping flames.  
  
“Who else?” a soft voice says from behind Thorin and Mahal. Thorin starts, turning his head as Mahal does so, gaping as the God smiles welcomingly. For just within the fire's light stands a lady, tall as an elf-maiden, but built as sturdily as a dwarf-wife. Her broad face is round and kind, her wide, slightly slanted eyes a warm hazel. Long, golden-brown hair curls around a face that is tanned and lined as if its owner has spent many seasons in the sun. Her clothes consist of green elven-style robes over grey trousers, all seemingly made of the same fine wool and decorated with leaf-shaped stitchery along the seams.  
  
It is this stitchery that puts Thorin in mind of his and Bilbo Baggins' marriage-night, and the wedding clothes he would have indeed ripped from his consort's lithe body in his haste to at last have him.  
  
Thorin looks away from the lady for several moments, trying to control himself. For to weep now would be worse than unseemly . . . it would be pointless.  
  
Under tentative control, he glances up at her and nods. Those changeable hazel eyes are measuring Thorin openly, keenly. Thorin has the feeling that she knows everything he was feeling and thinking—everything he'd wished to conceal from her. And, chagrined, he finds that he cannot now look away from her for simple wonderment.  
  
Then she suddenly grins, revealing prominent white teeth, and crosses her arms over an ample bosom. “Who else,” she says again, gently, “but Bilbo Baggins?”  
  
“I—my Lady,” Thorin murmurs, jumping up to bow to her—to _Her _. For who else would this Lady be, here, in this place, but Mahal's partner, the Lady_ Yavanna _? “My consort is, indeed, remarkable, but he is no healer. How—?”  
  
“Why, with skill, care, and tenacity, of course,” the Lady Yavanna says, tossing Her curls and grinning proudly. “My hobbits, were they known of by the world at large, would be known __for_ exactly _those traits. And Bilbo Baggins is an_ exceptional _hobbit.”  
  
“Indeed, my Lady,” Mahal says, standing up and skirting His chair to bow to His Lady, take Her hand, and kiss it. Thorin is reminded, with another pang, of himself and Bilbo. “Between Bilbo's tenacity, Tauriel's skill with treating the effects of orc-toxins, and both their care . . . Thorin's chances of survival are. . . .”  
  
“Not nearly as bad as you'd have the poor dear believe,” Lady Yavanna says, swatting at Mahal, who sighs and smiles, straightening. He's noticeably shorter than His Lady, The Lady who's even now, watching Thorin once more.  
  
“Tauriel's knowledge is quite varied and thorough, but she's missing one thing that will help you more, now, than anything else. An herb that she cannot quickly find for searching, but that grows in plenty quite nearby,” She says, and Thorin takes a step forward, bowing again.  
  
“My Lady, if you could find a way to tell them—” he starts to say, and Lady Yavanna laughs.  
  
“But I've _already _found a way, Thorin:_ you _.” She laughs again at the confused look on Thorin's face. “When you get back, remember this, if you remember nothing else about your time here—and indeed, you likely will_ not _remember much about your time here. Remember: there_ _is_ athelas _ growning amongst the moss on the north side of the ring of oak trees not one mile from the place where you're camped. Tauriel can make a tea and a poultice that can slow the toxin and draw some of it out of your wound. So remember the _athelas _.”  
  
Thorin frowns, thinking back to his lessons in elvish. They were a long time ago, even before the sundering of relations between dwarves and elves. “Athelas . . . you mean _kingsfoil? The weed? _”  
  
The Lady Yavanna 's right eyebrow quirks, and She opens her mouth to speak. What comes out is a rhyme that is almost a song in the Lady's lovely, low contralto:  
  
“_Kingsfoil leaves and buds to cure.  
Athelas to save the king  
From many an ailment obscure,  
Athelas are the thing.  
Kingsfoil is the thing. _  
  
“That is a little rhyme once taught to the children of Men. One of many that has been forgotten for more than an Age,” The Lady says sadly. “Long have athelas been forgotten as a cure for many ailments by all but the elves. Including your Lord Elrond, who makes haste to join your party.”  
  
Thorin's brow furrows. “And this _athelas _is the same as_ kingsfoil _, my Lady? Truly?” he asks incredulously, unable to connect kingsfoil—a pretty enough weed, and quite prolific in the foothills of Erebor, once upon a time—with this cure-all, _athelas _.  
  
Mahal snorts sardonically. “If you take nothing from this visit, son of Thrain, son of Thror, take Lady Yavanna's generous herbal knowledge and _use it _, for it will almost certainly save the life you would go back to and live.” He pauses, then bows to Thorin, which could not surprise him more if Mahal should dance a jig immediately after.  
  
“It was a pleasure and an honor to meet you again. And for the first time, Thorin,” He says plainly, confoundingly, but with that wink that puts Thorin in mind of Balin, son of Fundin.  
  
And Lady Yavanna curtseys like a young girl, bobbing immediately back up and smiling brightly. It's a smile that reminds Thorin of his mother, for some reason, and his heart sighs in a way it hasn't in decades.  
  
“I, too, have been looking forward to meeting you in this incarnation,” She says softly, that kind, motherly smile widening and turning fond. “I can see why my dearest Luthien has always loved you and _will always _love you.”  
  
“Luthien? The _elf _?”  
  
Now, Thorin is _really _confounded. But before he can even open his mouth to further express that confusion, let alone ask to have it enlightened, Lady Yavanna sighs, looking to Her Lord, Her eyes taking on a far-seeing look. “We really must send him back soon, love. Poor Luthien is becoming quite frantic that she cannot rouse him and has not been able to coax a breath from him for nearly seven minutes.”  
  
“_Seven minutes _?!” Thorin exclaims, and Mahal sighs, too, His eyes closing and brow furrowing for a moment. Then He nods His agreement.  
  
“You are right, as always, my love.” He aims that even, white smile at Thorin and nods once more, in acknowledgement and dismissal. “Till we meet again, Thorin Oakenshield.”  
  
“But—”  
  
Mahal makes a gentle shooing motion with one hand, at the same time slipping the other around His Lady.  
  
The last thing Thorin sees before he is flung, bodiless once more, back down the tunnel whence he'd come, is the Lord and Lady stepping around the two chairs to sit in them, hands linking again as They settle in front of the hearth.  
  
Then They are nothing more than blurred and indistinct figures in a distant smear of orange light that is getting smaller and smaller as Thorin is sucked back down the dark tunnel.  
  
Shortly, even _that _dwindling light is but a pinprick that flickers, and dies out, to be replaced by more darkness. A Void with no moon nor star, nor relief of light, no matter how brief or far.  
  
Frightened by this endless mirk—frightened that he is to be sent to the Abyss, despite what had been said by the Lord and Lady, Thorin screams from the depths of his soul, and his consort's name pierces the darkness. And in return, another sound, a soft whisper, lacking in hope and all happiness, hits Thorin like a beacon made not of light, but of sound.  
  
_”Oh, Thorin, _” that tearful whisper sounds, vibrating throughout Thorin's being. “_ My king . . . my  _love_  . . . don't leave me in this world alone . . . please, don't leave your burglar, your Bilbo behind. Don't go someplace he cannot follow. . . .” _  
  
Thorin begins to fight—to _ struggle _toward that voice, that beloved voice, for he understands, now, what he must do to get back to his consort. He must_ fight, as ever he has for Bilbo. He must overcome _to be worthy of the love that has come to define him.  
  
So Thorin struggles. Against the darkness. Against being flung about this Abyss-for-the-soul by a will that is not his own. He fights and he swims against the powerful tide, until he senses a slight slowing down . . . and a then more than slight slowing . . . till that slowing is a _stop _. . . .  
  
A floating, dizzying _stop _in which he is reoriented—in which he reorients_ himself _toward the direction fom whence came his consort's voice. A complete a change in the direction in which his soul has traveled.  
  
Then he is once more moving, somehow. Not crawling, or walking, or running, but _flying _. Arrowing through the darkness even faster than before, with his destination now firmly fixed in his mind.  
  
And thus he travels for another eternity, until he sees _it _. . .  and _it _urges him on ever faster . . . faster than any pony or horse dreamed of traveling, even without the encumberment of a rider.  
  
And so he hits _it _, the wall of light—at first a faint pinprick, then a muddy smear, as of light seen behind shuttered lids—moving faster than the speed of his_ own shouting of his consort's name—  
  
—that sudden vise is a body contracting around him after so long without one. That sudden stop is a world rising up to land squarely on his shoulders, and he once more screams his love's name, in extremis for the second time in two days.  
  


*

  
  
“Bilbo _!” Thorin gasps out weakly, painedly, on the wings of his first breath in over nine minutes.  
  
His eyes fly open and he sees Bilbo's bowed, curly head raise instantly, red, swollen eyes gone wide with shock—tears for his dead husband frozen in them as well as already staining pale, dirty cheeks—mouth falling open. “Thorin? My love—? You're _alive _!” he exclaims, but Thorin's eyes have shut again. He's still breathing—wheezing—but an alarming heat has begun to bake from him. A heat his consort will soon feel in the hand that he's holding in both of his own.  
  
“On the north sides of the oaks a mile from here . . . oaks that stand in a ring . . . _she'll _know where. . . .”  
  
“_She _who?_ On the north sides of the ring of oaks _—my love, what are you_ talking about _?” Bilbo asks, sniffling, tears rolling down his face to drip on Thorin's, where they almost instantly begin to evaporate on his burning, reddened skin. Bilbo puts a hand on Thorin's forehead and after a few seconds pulls it away worriedly and takes Thorin's hand again, squeezing it. “Oh, love, you're burning up again! You're delirious! You're fever-mad!”  
  
“_Not _mad . . . _ They _bid me remember_ athelas. Athelas _will save me. . . .”  
  
“_They _who? Who is_ Athelas _?”  
  
“Not _who _,” Thorin sighs, wheezing harder for a few moments as he struggles against unconsciousness. Against_ forgetfulness _. “_ What _.”  
  
“Thorin—you've been ill for nearly three days, now. The fever's had you raving for most of that, and then you . . . you stopped breathing for so long I thought you _dead _—” Bilbo's voice cracks around a throat full of tears, and Thorin's eyes flutter open again, but cannot focus on anything. Everything is a blur of overcast light and green, as his consort bows his head again, pressing his face to Thorin's neck, the warm wetness of his tears nonetheless cool on Thorin's heated skin. “I thought I'd_ lost _you.”  
  
“I _was _lost. But_ you _found me, in the Void, after Mahal and Lady Yavanna sent me from the Halls.” Thorin sighs again, closing out the confusion of light and green, for his eyes and his skull feel as if they're about to implode. “The Lady Yavanna bid me remember the_ athelas. _”  
  
“My king—”  
  
But Thorin has begun to speak once more, haltingly, but clearly, in spite of the cracking of _his _voice_ _:  
  
“_Kingsfoil leaves and buds to cure.  
Athelas to save the king  
From many an ailment obscure,  
Athelas are the thing.  
Kingsfoil is the. . . . _  
  
And with that, Thorin falls silent but for his continued wheezing and a few moans.  
  
“The _weed _, kingsfoil?” Bilbo asks, with an incredulity Thorin well remembers even as he forgets it.  
  
“Yes . . . _athelas _,” he murmurs with the last of his cogent mind before that clarity is snuffed out and he's once more rendered a raving, dying soul with no true grasp of where he is or whom, leaving his consort alone to squeeze his hand and caress his face, murmuring his love and promising to save Thorin whatever the cost.  
  
“You mustn't give me the Arkenstone, Master Baggins,” is Thorin's fevered reply as his eyes open once more: unfocused pinpricks surrounded by midnight-blue and garnet red. “Or the Madness will take me, as it took Thror. You must help me, Bilbo . . . you must _save me _from the Madness.”  
  
“I _will _save you, my king,” Bilbo promises gently, pressing a lingering kiss to Thorin's too-warm mouth. “I will hold the Arkenstone for you, just like last time. I won't let _anything _hurt you ever again, love.”  
  
Thorin smiles up at him, limp and terrified, before his eyes close once more and he moans unhappily, shuddering all over. “King's Madness,” he murmurs hoarsely.  
  
Bilbo pulls the blanket covering Thorin up to his chin and sighs, hoping beyond all hope that, with the reduction of the fever—assuming Thorin survives that long—Thorin's sanity will return. For if anyone knows how fragile sanity can be, it is _Mad Baggins of Erebor _.  
  
Then he is suddenly—after several despairing moments, during which his tired mind simply cannot accept what it's just been told about bloody _kingsfoil _. . . then _several more _grimly determined moments in which all doubt becomes mere noise and distraction in the face of new hope for and faith in Thorin's survival _and _sanity—up on his feet like a shot and shouting for Tauriel._


	25. Dawn of a New Age 25 and Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which every end has a start. This final chapter very much fueled by the lovely voice of Amber Rubarth, most especially her album, "A Common Case of Disappearance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Lasties, folks. Thank you all so much for hanging in there. And it should go without saying that I don't own, so please don't sue.  
> Notes/Warnings: Written as a sequel to “Defiled.” Set post the retaking of Erebor. MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH MENTIONED. And yes, I know Khuzdul is the secret language of dwarves only. But Thorin has his reasons for taking liberties with that rule . . . and since he's the one wearing the big, shiny crown ::shrugs::

_Pain._  
  
Thorin's entire world is pain . . .  though agony might be nearer the mark. It feels as if his skin is on fire and that fire is searing through his flesh to wrap around the very marrow of his bones . . . and melt it.  
  
“My love,” a voice that sothes like cool balm caresses Thorin's flesh and spirit. Pushes back the awful, burning sizzle of flesh and bone, and clears Thorin's pain-addled mind just a bit.  
  
He opens his eyes and finds himself gazing into a blue that perfectly matches the beloved voice.  
  
“B-bilbo?” Thorin husks around a dry and clicking throat. The beautiful face above his own smiles and some of the shine in those remarkable eyes spills down pale cheeks that seem a bit more hollow than Thorin is used to seeing them.  
  
“Yes, my king, my love.” Soft, salty-sweet lips press Thorin's tenderly. Thorin closes his eyes and tries his best to hold onto that brief kiss—to brand the taste and feel in the memory of mind and heart.  
  
“What . . . what has happened?” he finally asks when he can open his eyes again. It feels as if hours have passed since Bilbo kissed him, and for all Thorin knows, they have. He has been, he knows, quite unwell. He tries to gather his strength and push himself upright into sitting position with arms as weak as water, and finds that the weight of the blankets defeats him before he's even tried. And in the attempt at trying, he's tired himself out anew, his eyes fluttering shut even as Bilbo's hands land gently on his shoulders to prevent him from doing the impossible.  
  
“Rest, now, my lord,” that cool-balm voice murmurs, and another kiss is pressed to his lips, even more tender and sweet than the last. “You'll have your answers when you're well enough to hear them.”  
  
 _But I_ am _well enough to hear them,_  Thorin means to protest, but the pain rallies, and sweeps him up in its forge-hot claws and bears him hence . . . away from Bilbo, and to a place where there is no relief, only agony and forgetfulness.  
  


*

  
  
The next time . . . agony lets him out from under for a bit longer.  
  
This time, his love, his precious burglar is not alone. Another familiar face—the face of a  _friend_ —hovers also over Thorin's bedside, straight brows raised in hope and satisfaction.  
  
“L-lord Elrond,” Thorin breathes, and the elven lord smiles. And when he smiles, Thorin notices that for the first time in his months of experience, Lord Elrond looks  _tired_. Not as exhausted as _Bilbo does_ , but definitely weary.  
  
“It is good to see you awake, King Thorin. And in your right mind, no less,” Lord Elrond says wryly, but without much in the way of amusement. Thorin frowns and looks to Bilbo, who smiles his lovely, but oh, so  _tired_  smile.  
  
“Ever has Lord Elrond been at your side since. . . .” Bilbo starts, then trails off, glancing at Lord Elrond, then looking back at Thorin with a rather forced smile. “Well, he's hardly left your side these many days of your . . . illness.”  
  
Thorin looks to Lord Elrond, who's watching him with that intent, piercing gaze, as if cataloguing Thorin and measuring him. Heaving a sigh that turns into a weak yawn, Thorin asks, his eyes moving slowly between his consort and his healer: “How  _many_  days have I . . . been ill?”  
  
Lord Elrond and Bilbo share a look. The elven lord sighs when Bilbo shrugs helplessly, wearily.  
  
“Perhaps such an answer would wait better for another day, son of Thrain,” Lord Elrond says hesitantly, and this hesitance, from an elf—from  _this_  elf—puts a bit more vigor in Thorin's mind, if not his aching, burning, rubbery body.  
  
“If I close my eyes again, when next I waken, it  _will_  be another day, will it not?”  
  
Lord Elrond sighs again, one hand coming up to his face briefly, to rub his left eyebrow with one long index finger, and he looks away, his face momentarily as worried as Bilbo's.  
  
“In all likelihood . . . yes, it will.”  
  
“And will you tell me, then, what has happened?” Thorin chuffs out curiously, his voice fading like colored silk left in the sun. “Or will you put me off and put me off till I expire of this malady?”  
  
“Thorin, you've been . . . very ill,” Bilbo says—an attempt to placate Thorin that is unnecessary, for Thorin simply hasn't the energy reserves or strength for anger, or even impatience. It is all he can do to fight the unconsciousness waiting just behind his eyes to swallow him whole, and lock him in its pain-gaol for some unknowable span. “We fear it might upset you to know for just _how_  long, when you're still in such a . . . fragile state.”  
  
“Master Baggins puts it very well, indeed.” Lord Elrond lays a hand briefly on the hobbit's slim shoulder, and Bilbo seems to take comfort from it, rather than simply bearing it. “He and I—and all who have cared for you during this terrible span—have only your best interests at heart.”  
  
 _'All who have cared for me during this terible span'? How long_ have _I been ill?_  Thorin wonders, trying his best not to blink. For he knows the agony is waiting for him, once more. That dark, hot place in which he remembers and knows nothing, not even his own name or the great truth of his heart and Bilbo's place in it.  
  
But after nearly a minute of staring into his consort's face, once more trying to brand Bilbo's purity and loveliness onto his soul before that soul is once more lost to pain that is never-ending, Thorin's watering, stinging eyes close. He blinks, and all is once more lost.  
  


*

  
  
“Tell me how long I've been ill.”  
  
At Thorin's near-breathless whisper, Bilbo shifts against Thorin's side and pulls Thorin's still-rubbery, still-weak arm about him tighter, sniffling.  
  
“Lord Elrond believes it wiser not to tell you for a little while longer . . . till your recovery is more . . . certain,” Bilbo whispers back, turning his face against Thorin's neck to kiss his throat.  
  
“Lord Elrond is indeed, wise, but even  _he_  is not right all the time,” Thorin says a little bit more loudly, not caring if the elven lord is somewhere in the room, in the shadows, where Thorin cannot yet see him. For what Thorin says is true and someone as wise as Lord Elrond must know it better than anyone. “I will only spend my wakeful hours worrying and assuming the worst. If you wish to spare me that, tell me, beloved: how long have I been ill?”  
  
Bilbo sighs and sits up a little to look into Thorin's tired eyes. His own, in the fire's light, seem to burn blue. “I fear your reaction to the news—”  
  
“Is it so long, then?”  
  
“It is . . . not a  _short_  span of time.”  
  
“ _Tell me_ , Bilbo. . . .”  
  
“You've been in and out of fevers—delirious and hovering at the edge of . . . of  _death_  for over three months. It is now almost summer.” Bilbo sniffles again, and wipes at his eyes. “For three months have I watched you like a hawk, fearing nothing but that you would slip away from me in your sleep. That the pain would be too much for a heart even as mighty and noble as yours. For months have I sat watching you slowly get better, only to regress, only to get better again, only to regress. And so on. For months have I listened to you scream in your sleep about burning and darkness, while I fretted idly by, because it was all I  _could_  do in the face of the delirium and pain that had you.  
  
“For three  _long_  months, my love, have I despaired of you ever truly recovering, despite Lord Elrond's skill, care, and tenacity. And Tauriel's dedication to nursing you.” Bilbo shakes his head ruefully and lays back down, pulling a stunned Thorin's arm around him once more, his small body shivering and shuddering. “I did what little  _I_  could—it wasn't much. Reading to you, holding your hand, laying with you, exercising your limbs. Talking to you. . . .”  
  
“No doubt feeding me and bathing me, as well,” Thorin murmurs, for he knows his hobbit, and knows Bilbo would never delegate such care as he was capable of giving Thorin to another. That if Bilbo had had Lord Elrond's, or even Tauriel's knowledge of herbal lore, the hobbit would have been working at  _healing_  Thorin, as well.  
  
Bilbo would have done  _everything and anything_  to see Thorin healed. Run himself into the ground, till Thorin was well and Bilbo, himself, at Death's door.  
  
But Thorin is still far too stunned at the amount of time— _three months!_ —that had passed to be as embarassed and mortified as he might otherwise be at the thought of being so helpless and vulnerable. Even and especially to his beloved Bilbo.  
  
“I would have done anything to make you more comfortable. Anything to heal you faster and completely,” Bilbo says softly, his free hand settling on Thorin's bare-but-partly-blanketed chest as lightly as a sparrow on a branch.  
  
Thorin heaves a sigh that barely disturbs Bilbo's hand or even the blanket, so weak is he still. “And what has so stricken me that I lay insensate for so long, fevered and near death?”  
  
“Husband—”  
  
“Bilbo—”  
  
“Will you not rest a little? At least close your eyes for a little while longer, yet? And perhaps the next time you wake—”  
  
“ _If_  I wake,” Thorin grumbles ruefully, thinking of the three months he's lost and the months more he might still lose, and all only to likely die at the end of it, if he cannot fight off this mysterious malady.  
  
“Don't  _say that_!” Bilbo exclaims angrily, sitting up again, this time sliding out from under the covers and getting out of their bed quickly, but carefully. It barely moves with the departure of his slight weight, though Thorin immediately misses the heat of Bilbo's body, despite his own elevated temperature.  
  
He is chilled instantly for Bilbo's lack.  
  
His burglar paces over to the fire, leaning against the mantle with one hand, the other wiping at his eyes. The firelight burnishes his pale, nude body rose and gold. “You have no idea what it's like, Thorin. No idea how difficult and painful and  _scary_  it's been for the past three months! I haven't been able to eat, I barely sleep—I haven't stepped foot out of this Mountain since we brought you back here . . . all I feel, when I feel anything at all, is afraid and anxious and bloody-well like I'm  _grieving_  because my husband isn't recovering nearly quickly enough, and has this horrible habit of  _dying_  every few weeks—”  
  
“What do you mean  _dying every few weeks_?” Thorin deamnds, but weakly, quietly. Bilbo flinches, and glances at Thorin worriedly, sheepishly, as if he'd not meant to say what he'd said.  
  
But he finally sighs again and looks back at the fire.  
  
“Your heart stopped and  _you_  stopped breathing completely. Five times in all. Never for more than a minute or two . . . except for the first time, in Mirkwood. . . .”  
  
“ _Mirkwood_?” Thorin frowns, and so doing, feels a lethargy steal over him. It is neither alarming, nor as potentially painful as the other times, but it  _is_  fairly determined to sweep him under. “What was I doing in  _Mirkwood_?”  
  
Bilbo looks over at Thorin again, frowning, too. “Do you not remember, my king? You fought and slew  _him_  . . . Azog, the Defiler. In a great battle that will be remembered for aeons.” And the wonder and awe in Bilbo's tired voice is, after at least three months, still quite apparent.  
  
Thorin's mouth opens, but no words come out. Indeed, he  _has_  no words with which to reply.  
  
And while he's waiting for some—just as Bilbo's face softens into well-worn lines of weary concern, Thorin is, as he'd predicted, swept out to sea, once more. After his eyes have closed, but before he is completely dragged under, he feels a small, warm body snuggle against his side.  
  
His limp, rubbery arm is pulled around slim shoulders and a wet face settles on his shoulder.  
  
“I, for one, will  _never_  forget the events of that day . . . for since I saw him fall, I have felt  _safe_  in a way that I haven't since . . . I left Hobbiton,” is whispered onto Thorin's fevered skin in a series of kisses, and Thorin means to ask incredulously:  _I took you_ with me _when I went to battle Azog the Defiler?_  
  
But before he can, he's gone, gone, gone. . . .  
  


*

  
  
“Tell me what happened when I fought Azog.”  
  
Thorin had awoken, this time with the chiming of his clock, at eight. Morning or night, he knew not, only that Tauriel had been in the process of spooning something into his slack mouth and a small, deeply sleeping body was curled up against his side and under his arm.  
  
Tauriel takes a breath and puts her bottle and spoon on Thorin's night table. The cloying, yet bitter taste of the medicine lingers in Thorin's mouth, and it is quite vile: like the ancient ashes of a fire that had been  _pissed_  out, once upon a century.  
  
“His highness left strict orders not to speak of the battle with you, yet, King Thorin—” she begins, sounding fantastically uncomfortable, and Thorin cuts her off with a glare.  
  
“And am I not the king under this Mountain? Are you not a guest in my domain?”  
  
Looking somehow even  _less_  comfortable than she'd sounded, Tauriel glances away, folding her hands in front of her like a child taken to task. “Yes, your majesty—”  
  
“And you were present, were you not? At the battle?”  
  
“Yes, I was. I was Captain Dwalin's scout, and though he  _did_  say I could wait the battle out, I . . . chose not to,” she says without inflection, and Thorin snorts weakly. He can only imagine how Kili might feel about that fact.  
  
“Then I am, as the king of the realm in which you now enjoy succor,  _commanding_  you to tell me what happened, from beginning to end.” Thorin puts on his most forbidding face, quite aware that it may not be  _so_  terribly forbidding after months of being ill. But it's all he has to work with, so he uses it.  
  
Tauriel now looks utterly miserable, her eyes darting to the hobbit sleeping under Thorin's arm before she returns her gaze to Thorin, taking another deep breath. “Well,” she begins, and at the same moment Bilbo sits up, frowning at Thorin and shrugging his arm off as if it is so much detritus.  
  
“Thank you, Tauriel, for giving the king his medicine.” Bilbo's gaze drifts to Tauriel and he smiles gently, fondly. “I'm afraid I fell asleep waiting for eight o'clock to roll around.”  
  
Tauriel curtseys shallowly, bobbing almost immediately back up, blushing. “It is nothing, your highness. I'm glad to be of assistance.”  
  
“It  _is_  something, Tauriel. Without your invaluable help, I doubt my king would have lived to greet this lovely midsummer morning with such a fierce and ungrateful scowl.” Now Bilbo's glaring back at Thorin again, who's own scowl is forgotten in a moment of complete shock.  
  
“Is it midsummer, already?” drops fom Thorin's numb lips, and Bilbo nods, still glaring. Though the glare softens, and fades when Thorin's confused face falls into lines of despair and desperation. “How can I have slept for so long? Is this not some awful jest?”  
  
“It is not, my lord. Unfortunately. Tauriel, will you excuse us, please?” he asks pleasantly, smiling up at Tauriel once more, and she nods once, bobbing down and up in that shallow curtsey before her long-legged stride takes her out of the royal bedchamber. When the doors close behind her, Bilbo's smile fades into a now familiar look of concern. “Long have you been ill, my love.”  
  
“Indeed. Every time I close my eyes, weeks go by,” Thorin whispers, tears gathering behind his eyes, where once a hot, waiting agony lived, but where now, a consuming darkness lives, neither hot nor cold, merely . . . all-encompassing. A devourer of all things—memory, thought, desire—even  _time_. “Is it to be this way for-ever? Sleeping away weeks at a time, to be awake and lucid for minutes before sleeping away weeks again?”  
  
“No, my love. No,” Bilbo says so softly and gently, it's as if his anger of a few moments before had never existed. “You  _are_  getting  _better_. Slowly, painstakingly. And it's not easy for you—for any of us—but you  _are_  healing.”  
  
And Thorin cannot return Bilbo's sweet, hopeful smile, only look away as tears roll down his face.  
  
“Midsummer . . . it has been at least five months since I fell ill, then.”  
  
Bilbo nods once, his smile slipping. “Closer to six, actually.”  
  
Sighing, Thorin, closes his eyes, wishing for that darkness to take him. But it does not. In fact, he feels tired, but not remotely  _sleepy_. That hovering unconsciousness is far from him, now, when he for once desires it. Desire to  _not feel_  the sadness and anxiety that is now eating away at him.  
  
“Who has been guiding and guarding Erebor in my absence?”  
  
Bilbo brushes Thorin's face with tender fingers that nonetheless tremble and Thorin opens his eyes to Bilbo's evening sky-ones. “It's been a team effort, actually, with Fili and Kili handling Court and petitions, the Council handling policy matters, and myself and Fili, handling the more . . . public appearances together, such as festivals and diplomatic visits.” Pausing thoughtfully, Bilbo's lips purse and he tugs down on his brown waistcoat. And it does  _not_  escape Thorin's notice that this waistcoat, once fitted, now bags sligthly on Bilbo's reduced frame. “If I have to sit through one more state dinner with Thranduil without you, love, I may just hang myself with my napkins while he watches me from down that long, pointy nose of his.”  
  
Surprised into the laugh, Thorin shakes his head, feeling some of his tension of moments earlier flowing away.   
  
Fili may not be ready for kingship, but these past months no doubt taught him a lot that he needs to know for that eventuality. And after over a year of watching Thorin handle Court and petitions, he no doubt has learned  _something_  about fairness and judging a petitioner's case. If he can manage to not take whatever impetuous advice  _Kili_  so freely offers, Fili has no doubt done fine for himself as acting monarch.  
  
And the Council probably runs like well-oiled machinery when Thorin isn't there, just as it does when he is. He trusts each and every dwarf that sits in that chamber of a morning . . . with his gold, with his life, with his  _kingdom_.  
  
As for his consort . . . Bilbo could charm the birds out of the trees and onto a spit, and has in the past. Has won the allegiance and friendship of an elven lord, even. Of a wizard, even. If anyone can handle the diplomacy required—and far better than  _Thorin_ , who recognizes his own tendency toward bluntness that borders on rudeness—to keep arrangements with Thranduil, Bard, and the other leaders of the surrounding area (not to mention the factions within Erebor itself) running smoothly, it's Bilbo Baggins.  
  
“Everything grinds along as it is wont to do, my king, but . . . it is not the same without you. Doubt not that your absence is felt and lamented,” Bilbo whispers, and Thorin smiles limply.  
  
“It sounds as if the kingdom is . . . 'grinding along' just fine without Thorin Oakenshield at the helm.”  
  
Bilbo shakes his head fervently in negation. “Erebor waits for her king's return . . . as does the king's consort.” And he leans in to kiss Thorin's lips as sweetly as ever. But as the moments pass, the kiss turns from sweet, to heated, to wanton, with Thorin gasping into it for breath, for more of Bilbo's taste, even as Bilbo's needy moans make his teeth vibrate.  
  
Of course, then—perverse state that it is—the darkness chooses this time to rise up behind his eyes and demand his presence once more in its midnight clutches.  
  
 _No!_  he thinks, trying to bury himself in the delicious desperation of Bilbo's kisses.  _I will_ not _leave him in this fashion, to worry for weeks if I'll ever wake up again! I will_  not!  
  
But the darkness does not take  _no_  for an answer, and the last thing Thorin feels is the wet, agile thrill of Bilbo's tongue against his own—which now no longer tastes of vile medicine, but of long-missed sweetness—and the caress of gentle, loving fingertips across his cheek.  
  


*

  
  
“Can I not have something a bit more . . . substantial? How am I to ever get stronger on such fare? I'll starve to death in three days!”  
  
Bilbo sits carefully on the edge of the bed—so as not to disturb the lightly laden tray—with a patient sigh. He dips the spoon in the now tepid chicken broth the kitchen had sent up and stirs it. A few grains of rice and soggy vegetables swim up from the depths of the bowl and Thorin wants to gag. When Bilbo had mentioned a light lunch an hour ago, Thorin had grinned, visions of salted pork, crusty bread with fresh butter, and a few flagons of ale dancing in his head. The reality is far less tempting. And he's been trying to explain that to Bilbo for the past half hour. “You've been doing just fine on broth and apple cider for months, Thorin. Now, do stop being difficult and just  _eat your lunch!_ ”  
  
Despite knowing that it will take enough effort to make him rather tired, Thorin crosses his arms. “As King under this Mountain I  _demand_ —”  
  
“As your  _consort, I_  demand that you stop bloody moaning and just eat your lunch, so you can take a nap!” Bilbo suddenly sounds as if he very much wouldn't mind if Thorin were unconscious again, for a while.  
  
Stung, Thorin leans back into the pillows propping him up and narrows his eyes. “I outrank you, in this kingdom, and—”   
  
“Oh, don't start that nonsense with  _me_ , Thorin Oakenshield!”  
  
“I'll start any nonsense I  _choose_  to!”  
  
Bilbo opens his mouth, a no doubt tart reply on his tongue . . . then he closes it, clearly swallowing some choice words, pastes a harried smile on his face, and holds the spoon to Thorin's lips as if he's a recalcitrant toddler. “My love . . . this is what you need to get better. Your stomach is unused to anything heavier than light broths. You'll make yourself sick if you just go right back to mutton and potatoes.  
  
“You must accept that it will be some time before you can work back to eating the things that you love. In the  _mean_ time, you must eat  _something_ —”  
  
“Not  _this_  swill!”  
  
“ _EAT_!” Bilbo commands angrily, glaring and empyting the spoon in to the bowl, then shoving the utensil into Thorin's left hand. Startled at this unusual loss of temper in his consort, Thorin takes the spoon. But he doesn't dip it into the broth. He merely stares at Bilbo, whose face is going through several rather interesting expressions, including surprise, embarrassment, and chagrin. It finally settles on weary helplessness, and he stands up, pacing toward the fireplace. Toward the bed again, opening his mouth once more to speak. But when nothing comes out, Bilbo turns toward the doors to their bedchamber, striding quickly toward them.  
  
“I'll notify the kitchen to send up something else,” he says without inflection as he goes, his shoulders stiff and tense. And Thorin, seeing this, sighs as he realizes that Bilbo's shoulders have  _been_  looking like this since . . . since Thorin woke up that first time, at the very least. They've  _been_  tense and stiff for weeks—perhaps  _months_ —as if he cannot relax or rest.  
  
 _And perhaps he can_ not _. His husband has been sick for more than half a year, and for more than half of that illness has been either dying or dead._  Thorin thinks in a voice that sounds quite a bit like Lord Elrond's gently reasoning one. He frowns to himself, glancing down at the unappetizing bowl of broth.  _He is_ exhausted _, listless, and working himself towards his own early grave, and yet still doing his best to take care of me despite having no energy to do it with. And every time I fight him on . . . nonsense, such as this, I sap a little more of that energy he does not even have. . . .  
  
I'm a clod._  
  
“Bilbo—come back,” he says quietly—asks, really—but Bilbo's already at the doors, opening the right one and slipping out without looking back.  
  
“And I'll ask Kili to come keep you company while you eat.”  
  
“No—beloved, the broth and cider are fine, and I just saw Kili this morning—come back, please?” Thorin calls, thinking the words he  _would_  say if he  _could: I am grateful for your dedication and care, and I_ love _you more than anything. I do not mean to make you so upset. I do not know what causes me to be so . . . difficult._  “Please?”  
  
“I need to . . . to get some air!” is Bilbo's stammered reply from the main room. Shortly after that, the doors to their chambers slam shut.  
  
By the time Thorin's second lunch and Kili arrive—roughly at the same time—the bowl of broth is emptied, the plain cider is two thirds finished, and Thorin is lost to a natural—but thin and disturbed—sleep.  
  
So Kili eats the second lunch—mutton and potatoes, with carrots and peas, a flagon of ale, and one of Cook's berry tarts—and keeps vigil by Thorin's side for the rest of the afternoon.  
  


*

  
  
Bilbo watches from their bed with wide, worried eyes as Thorin paces from corner to corner of their bedroom, on crutches, cursing his useless, weak arms and even more useless and weak legs.  
  
He even curses his bathing robe for going wildly askew and eventually falling open.  
  
“Erebor wasn't built in a day, love,” Bilbo offers tentatively, worriedly, as Thorin attempts to belt the robe. He knows by now not to offer his help. “ _You've_  only been able to get out of bed for _three_. You're not going to be running races or splitting cords of wood tomorrow.”  
  
Bilbo subsides almost meekly when Thorin glares at him.  
  
“If I don't push myself, I'll never get  _anywhere_ ,” Thorin grits out, forcing himself to ignore the burning in his muscles and the feeling in his bones, as if they've been turned into shards of grinding glass.  
  
“But if you push  _too hard_ , you'll only relapse.”  
  
“You heard Lord Elrond. I'm on the mend. I'm fine.”  
  
“Those weren't his exact words.”  
  
“Close enough.”  
  
“Thorin—”  
  
“Stop  _coddling_  me, Master Baggins. You are my consort, not my mother.” Thorin sends another glare Bilbo's way, and for a moment Bilbo looks hurt—incredibly so. Then he merely looks more tired than Thorin's ever seen him. When he stands up, it's slowly, gingerly, as if doing so pains him.  
  
“I can't even talk to you when you're like this,” he says softly, running a hand through his curls and shaking his head. “Do as you please. You always have. I'm going to—”  
  
“Get some air?” Thorin snaps, and Bilbo sighs.  
  
“Thorin—”  
  
“That seems to be your solution whenever I don't immediately give in to your tears, or your shrewish, unyielding demands that I remain invalid instead of finally beginning to heal!”  
  
“ _My_  unyielding demands?” Bilbo barks out a brief, cynical laugh that Thorin's never heard from him. “And now  _I'm_  the one keeping you from healing faster?”  
  
Wincing, Thorin—who has never been known for his marvelous tact—wishes he could take back the last thing he said. Or, if nothing else, take back the way he'd  _said_  it.  
  
“Beloved,” he begins, in a voice that still sounds angry and impatient. Thorin doesn't know how to make it sound otherwise, for he  _is_  angry and impatient . . . but not, he suddenly realizes, with his consort. “I misspoke. I did not mean—”  
  
“Yes, you did.” With another laugh, Bilbo turns away from Thorin. He's been doing that quite a bit, lately, and that is . . . worrying.  
  
“My king,” Bilbo says wearily—as he says everything, these days. “No one wishes for you to be healthy more than I. Not even  _you_  wish to be healthy as much as  _I_  wish that  _for_  you. If I coddle you, it is only because I wish you to have the best chance at that healing as possible. If I am shrewish and unyielding, it is only because I have grown so used to fighting for your life, battling death on an hourly basis for you, that I don't know how else to act anymore. My life has been about  _your_  life—and your deaths—for so long, I don't know how to  _be_  now that I'm not scambling to keep you alive. I . . . apologize for distressing you. For holding you back.”  
  
And with that, Bilbo turns to face Thorin again. But not before wiping at his cheeks. The smile he's pasted on his face—how long has his skin been so sallow? How long have those dark circles been under his eyes? How hollow his cheeks have become!—is nothing like the  _real_  one. The _lovely_  one that even now, even in Thorin's most bearish moods, has the power to melt him, heart first.  
  
“What say I see if Dwalin is free to help you with your exercise? He'll know, even better than Lord Elrond, what you're ready for, and he'll probably be better company for you than  _I've_ been.” Bilbo's arms are now crossed over his chest, his shoulders once more stiff and tense. He looks even more miserable now, for that bright, stricken smile.  
  
Shaking his head at his own folly and unreasoning anger, Thorin hobbles toward Bilbo, stopping just short of touching distance, for Bilbo doesn't seem inclined to have Thorin any closer.  
  
“My love . . . you are the  _best_  company. My best friend,” Thorin says lowly, and this time his voice sounds a bit more like he would  _have_  it sound. “If I've given you reason to doubt that recently, then  _I_  am the one who should be apologizing. And I do. I apologize for . . . making this more difficult on you. For taking you for granted. For . . . driving that lively, lovely sparkle from your eyes. And I would ask that you  _stay_  here. With me. For though I am cross and sometimes cruel, of late, doubt not that such attitudes and behavior are directed not at you, but at myself. _You_  are . . . as ever you  _have_  been. My perfect gem and my most beloved treasure.”  
  
And when Thorin, carefully balancing himself, leans in and reaches out to brush his fingertips across Bilbo's cheek, Bilbo does not pull away, as Thorin had half-expected. He looks surprised and surprisingly vulnerable, all of a sudden. But he does not pull away.  
  
“Thorin,” he says, in a choked, vulnerable voice. “I—I. . . .” he trails off, his wide eyes going from hopeful, to starry and vague in the space of a few heartbeats. He starts to smile—a  _real_  one, this time—them frowns, looking confused.  
  
“That's odd,” he says, sounding quite puzzled. Then his eyes are rolling upward, his body sagging forward. Thorin instinctively drops his crutches and catches his unconscious consort—but just barely. Holds them both up on legs that both he and Bilbo—and Lord Elrond and Dwalin, for that matter—would have said were weeks and months away from holding Thorin's own weight unassisted, let alone even Bilbo's slight weight.  
  
But Thorin holds them both upright for most of a minute, murmuring Bilbo's name and patting his sallow face gently, yet frantically. For most of a minute he kisses Bilbo's name into the skin of Bilbo's clammy forehead. All to no response.  
  
Then he, too, is collapsing. He makes certain to fall backward, taking the brunt of the fall to spare his unconscious consort. The pain this occasions is so intense—his tired, overtaxed muscles and glass-shard bones screaming at him in the key of agony—that he blacks out for some unknown span.  
  
When his own swoon has receded to something that's very nearly cogence, Thorin's calling weakly for his guards. For help.  
  


*

  
  
“Really! This is ridiculous! I feel  _fine_!” Bilbo claims, throwing back the covers on their bed. Thorin simply tucks his clearly disoriented consort back in, after pushing him back into the nest of pillows.  
  
“Of course you're fine, Master Baggins. But you need to rest, for now. Isn't that right, Lord Elrond?”  
  
“Indeed. The only cure for Master Baggins' exhaustion is to get more rest and to stop trying to take so much on, as I told him several months ago,” Lord Elrond says sternly, his gaze still on a weakly protesting Bilbo.  
  
“But I get rest every night,” he says, and throws back the covers once more. And Thorin once more pushes him back into the pillows and tucks him in.  
  
“Sleep so thin, it cannot possibly be restful,” Thorin declares, angry at himself for letting this—Bilbo's stubborn restlessness—go on for so long that the hobbit had made himself  _sick_. Some husband Thorin's turned out to be . . . but he plans to be a far better one from this moment, on. “You wake up at the slightest sound. Even if I yawn, you wake up, ready to tend to me and take care of me.”  
  
Bilbo looks puzzled now. “Of course I do. You're  _ill_.”  
  
“I  _was_  ill, love, but I'm recovering. Slowly, but surely. Thanks to your efforts. But you can  _rest_ now, my gem. I'm safe. I'm no longer in danger. I won't slip away if you rest for the night.” Thorin smiles as reassuringly as he can. But Bilbo does not look reassured.  
  
“Thorin—”  
  
“You should listen to him, Master Baggins, for in this matter, he is wiser than you,” Lord Elrond murmurs, and his lips twitch as if he would smile in the face of Bilbo's surprise; but then he's holding that stern expression once more. “King Thorin is no longer in danger of dying. Most of the poison has been leached from his system. The remnants of the toxin that yet linger in his flesh are . . . slow to be purged, but be purged they will.  _If_  . . . King Thorin will take his own advice and get more rest, as well, and not push himself quite so hard.”  
  
Then both sets of blue eyes are on  _Thorin_ , and he sighs. Finally he takes Bilbo's hand—clammy and cool . . . which is  _extremely_  worrying—and raises it to his lips.  
  
“I will rest, if Master Baggins will rest with me.”  
  
And Bilbo is the one to sigh, now.  
  
“I still don't think I need to get more rest,” he mumbles at last, laying back and letting Thorin tuck him in for a third time. “But if it means my lord will rest more, then . . . I will try.”  
  
“Then it is agreed,” Lord Elrond says quickly, clapping his hands together briskly. “I will draw up a schedule of rest periods and naps for you both to follow, and place it in your hands by tomorrow morning, along with a mild sedative for  _you_ , Master Baggins, for your body needs to once more get used to an adequate amount of rest, and it will not do that on its own.”  
  
Thorin and Bilbo glance at each other, until Thorin shrugs and Bilbo sighs again, grumbling.  
  
“Bloody healers,” it sounds like, but if Lord Elrond hears it, he certainly gives no sign.  
  


*

  
  
“How is it you were invisible during the battle?”  
  
In Thorin's arms, Bilbo shifts about till he can look up into Thorin's eyes, his own not yet sleepy, but wide awake.  
  
It has been a fortnight since the hobbit's collapse, and in that time, both he and Thorin have been resting as much as possible, per Lord Elrond's instructions—Bilbo with the help of that mild sedative the elven lord had mentioned.  
  
Thorin, it turns out, has needed nothing so much  _as_  he's neeed the rest he's gotten with a fierce determination.  
  
He  _had_  been pushing himself too hard, and likely setting himself back, in the process. For he spends most of his days asleep, now, instead of trying to walk about and force usefulness back into his weak limbs.  
  
And Bilbo has been sleeping right next to him, so deeply and for so long, at turns, that Thorin is able to watch him for sometimes hours at a time, caressing his hobbit's still-peaky, but less sallow and exhausted face. Often he runs his fingers through soft, curling hair with silver in it that he does not remember being there before. . . .  
  
Before he went off courting disaster last spring against that same hobbit's wise advice.  
  
And yet, if he could go back and change what had happened . . . he would not. Azog is in the Abyss, where justice and the gods had seen fit to place him, through Thorin. This is no small coup to be tossed away because of the resulting months of illness.  
  
“You remember what happened? All of it?” Bilbo asks now, his body tensing against Thorin's. Thorin smiles wryly.  
  
“I have remembered since I first woke up after the last of the fevers passed. I remember that I had fought Azog to a draw before the tables turned in his favor, and I faltered.” Thorin frowns as he cudgels his memory which, though complete regarding the battle, is neither detailed nor clear. “I recall that he scored a blow to my side that I felt in my flesh. His arm of blades drove through my armor. And those blades were poisoned, were they not?”  
  
Bilbo nods, his eyes solemn and haunted. “They were. And when he scored that hit, I . . . screamed, distracting you and nearly getting you killed . . . but I was able to block his blade with Sting long enough for you to scramble away.” He sighs guiltily.  
  
“Once again, you were my guardian, saving me from Azog's wrath at high cost to yourself,” Thorin says, running his hand along Bilbo's right arm. It is whole and unmarred, but Thorin has noticed that Bilbo tends to use it infrequently, except when writing. Otherwise, it seems to pain him to do so. “Your arm was broken while blocking him, was it not?”  
  
Bilbo nods, smiling a little. “Yes. Rather badly, but I've recovered use of it, though it still aches when I do so. Especially on rainy days.” Now, he laughs a little. “Oh, listen to me go on about my silly arm after all you've been through!”  
  
“Your wound was a result of your brave and timely defense of me, and not at all  _silly_.” Thorin pulls Bilbo back into his arms and settles them both more comfortably among the pillows. “I wish only that you had not needed to defend me at all.”  
  
“Thorin, it was the least I could do, seeing as it was me that put you in that position in the first place with my idiotic screaming.” Bilbo sighs again, gusty and warm on Thorin's bare chest. “ _My_ fault you were chasing after Azog to begin with. My fault you wound up poisoned and dying and—”  
  
He draws in a shuddering breath and would pull out of Thorin's arms, but for Thorin holding him tight. Thorin may not have recovered nearly his full strength, but he is strong enough to hold his consort to him as a drowning man holds to a piece of floating bark.  
  
And after a minute of laying thus, his consort is holding onto him the same way.  
  
“The blame for my injuries need be laid at only Azog's door. For it is  _his_  evil that set all this in motion,” Thorin whispers in Bilbo's hair, in which, he once more notices, there is more silver than there had been before spring.  
  
“All because I got my stupid self raped, you—” Bilbo starts to say, his voice choked with tears. Thorin holds him tighter, hushing him.  
  
“And  _that_  is not your fault, either, my gem. You are an innocent. One who leapt to my defense despite me not deserving such a noble favor. If anything, Azog's violation of you is  _my_  fault, for if I had not fallen—”  
  
“ _That_  is not  _your_  fault, my king.” Bilbo takes Thorin's hand and kisses the palm. “It is Azog's fault.”  
  
Thorin shakes his head sadly. “Beloved, my desire for vengeance upon him—”  
  
“Was entirely understandable, after all the things he's done to your family and to your people.” Bilbo looks up at Thorin once more, his eyes shining with tears, but he's smiling. “And you put aside your desire for vengeance for a desire for  _justice_ , did you not?”  
  
Thorin nods once. “It took far longer for me to do so than it should have, but yes.”  
  
“Then you were in the right. And  _that_  is why you won. For you fought a righteous battle, defending the honor of those whom Azog wronged and sending him to his deserved reward.” Bilbo searches Thorin's eyes and sighs for a third time. “If me getting raped was not my fault, then neither is it yours. If you nearly dying in the Battle of Mirkwood was not my fault, then neither was it yours. I am willing to place the responsibility for Azog's actions on  _Azog's_  head. You must be willing do the same, my lord.”  
  
Thorin looks away from the pleading in Bilbo's eyes, sighing himself as he temporizes. “Is that what they're calling it, then?  _The Battle of Mirkwood_?”  
  
Bilbo smiles a crooked half-smile that Thorin can see from the corner of his eye. “Indeed, my king. Thranduil has been grousing about it for months.” He laughs a little. “Every time he comes to visit us, he makes some snide comment about  _war-mongering dwarves_  traipsing into his realm to do battle with orcs, and the damage they both do to the flora.”  
  
Thorin finds himself smiling, as well. Anything that makes Thranduil pissy is more than enough to put a smile on Thorin's face.  
  
And if it allows him extra time to think about what Bilbo had said before he agrees to it, so much the better.  
  
Pulling his consort closer, Thorin kisses Bilbo's lips gently. Not the first time he's done so in the past fortnight, but it is only now, in hindsight, that he realizes that in the months before that, they'd barely so much as bussed each other's cheeks in passing.  
  
It'd been a situation that wanted remedying and for the past two weeks, Thorin has been doing his best.  
  
As their kiss deepens, Bilbo begins to shift and writhe against Thorin with restrained desperation, his small body hot as a flame in Thorin's arms. Shortly, he's as hard as anything against Thorin's thigh and moaning softly as Thorin pulls him on top of him, his hands sliding under the covers and down to Bilbo's backside to hold him in place as he bucks up against the hobbit's shaking body. For though Thorin is not hard—hasn't been able to  _get_  hard yet, since waking up from the last of the fevers—he understands Bilbo's need and desire. Feels it,  _himself_ , in a faint, barely-there sort of way.  
  
(He has yet to summon the courage to ask Lord Elrond if— _when_ —he'll be able to get hard again. He can only hope that this . . . impotence is a result of his far-from-healed body having other priorities, and that the problem will solve itself with time and . . . attention.)  
  
Bilbo's prick slides against Thorin's own flaccid one with a friction Thorin can feel and enjoy—never has Bilbo touched him and he  _has not_  enjoyed it—and sooner, rather than later, Bilbo is coming with a small cry that gets smothered by Thorin's mouth. His body is strung as tight as a lyre before it goes utterly limp on top of Thorin's, Bilbo's kisses turned into pants of shared breath, occasional lascivious licks of tongue, and gentle nips with teeth. And though Thorin does not feel the heat of desire— _yet_ , he thinks grimly, but with determination—he drinks down those lazy, humid kisses like summer wine.  
  
This is not the first time, in the past fortnight, they've wound up so—from the third night they have been kissing and touching and exploring each other until even after Bilbo comes—but this time feels, for some reason,  _different_. Even better than the other times, despite Thorin's continuing worries about his inability to get hard yet, for all his consort's trying—and  _how_  Bilbo has tried . . . with hands and mouth—to rouse Thorin's stubborn flesh. . . .  
  
Sighing, and putting aside his worry, Thorin rolls them over, till he's on top of Bilbo, who wraps arms and legs around Thorin and kisses him more intently, with passion and precision that Thorin returns for long minutes. Then he's staring down into evening sky-eyes that seem to glow in the light of the bedside lamp.  
  
“ _Soon_ , my king,” Bilbo whispers understandingly, cleaving tightly to Thorin, who smiles wryly, but genuinely, at  _this_  turning of tables—at Bilbo reassuring him of  _soon_  and himself impatient for that fabled time to arrive—and steals another kiss. He puts aside his hopes and fears, and focuses on  _this moment,_  with his hobbit.  
  
“So comely and fair are you, my beloved,” he murmurs, and Bilbo returns the smile, like the sun rising under the Mountain. “So sweet and brave and strong. If there is a reason I am still alive, I am certain that reason is a unwillingness to be parted from you.”  
  
Bilbo cups Thorin's face in his hand and gently busses his lips, lingering so tenderly it blurs Thorin's vision. But he blinks rapidly before that blurriness can roll down his cheeks, for he has no wish to alarm Bilbo with his tears.  
  
“And so noble and handsome are  _you_  my king. So strong and wonderful and . . . I love you more than I can bear in some moments,” Bilbo replies in that choked voice, but he's still smiling. Thorin returns the smile, though it turns into a yawn after a few moments, and Bilbo chuckles, yawning right back. “Shall I tell you a story before we both fall asleep?”  
  
Thorin's eyebrows—still as dark as ever, though most of the hair on his head has silvered over the past eight months. According to Dis  _and_  Lord Elrond, he looks more like Thror than ever—lift halfway to his hairline and he snorts.  
  
“Only if you wish to send us to sleep that much faster,” Thorin quips, only to get swatted on the arm for his cheek. He laughs and steals a kiss that tastes of happiness and security. Of  _love_.  
  
“My stories are  _not_  boring,” Bilbo says haughtily, but his lips are twitching as if he's fighting a grin. “You're just a poor judge of what's genuinely interesting.”  
  
“I'm certain that's the case, my gem.” But Thorin snorts and rolls them over again, so that they're on their sides and holding each other, gazing into each other's eyes.  
  
“ _Once upon a time_ ,” Bilbo begins grandly, with a flourish, “there lived a hobbit who went adventuring with a fellowship of dwarves. And after many shared escapades—orcs and stone giants, elves and wizards—the hobbit found himself in the guts of a mountain, his new friends taken by goblins, and himself alone in labyrinthine caves. Pursued, himself, by a fierce and quite scary goblin, this hobbit shortly wound up falling down a chasm, to the bottom of a deep pit, landing in a pile of large and rather foul mushrooms, along with his pursuer. Luckily for the hobbit, he had rolled under the mushrooms and was hidden from sight by them. Unluckily for his pursuer,  _he_  was  _not_  hidden from sight. And shortly after the hobbit awoke with a lump on his head and no idea where he was, along came a creature of shadows and madness, and—despite his gantry-thinness—a fierce hunger. . . .”  
  
At this, Thorin perks up, for this is nothing he's  _ever_  heard before, nor is this some mere tale intended to pass the watches of the night.  
  
Ever has Bilbo glossed over his time under that mountain, and refused to speak of it in more than the most general terms. Ever has Thorin despaired of hearing what had happened in those caves to change Bilbo from the hobbit who'd been prepared to leave the fellowship . . . to the hobbit who'd been prepared to die aiding that fellowship in their quest for their home.  
  
Far from bored by  _this_  story, he searches Bilbo's eyes again—that small, lovely smile has been replaced by an expression as solemn as a Sunday morning—and nods once. “Go on, beloved,” he says, kissing his consort's forehead reassuringly. “I am listening.”  
  
Bilbo nods, now, swallowing nervously. But he goes on. “With a song in his heart and a stone in his hand, this creature of shadows and madness beat at the goblin, which had just started to awaken. And as he beat the goblin with the stone, a flash of something golden fell from within the rags he wore. Something . . .  _precious_. . . .”  
  


**Epilogue**

  
  
“How are you doing so far, my love?”  
  
“Bloody  _freezing_ , is how I'm doing!” Thorin grouses. “I don't remember the winds ever being this stiff!”  
  
Bilbo chuckles. “Well, Lord Elrond said that would happen. That you'd feel colder, now, when outside. Plus, it's the end of December. Winter's here, again.” He leans lightly on Thorin's arm and Thorin leans rather less lightly on his cane as they stroll slowly up and down the battlements for only the third time since Thorin had begun his laborious recovery.  
  
The air around them is cold, and heavy with the promise of the first snow—which is coming rather late in the year, bringing with it the possiblilty of a late-lingering winter and possible food shortages—and the sky above is almost leaden with storm clouds that are momentarily matched by Thorin's suddenly soured mood.  
  
“And how was your first day back at Court?”  
  
Thorin grunts, as he remembers how weary he'd been from the first petition and how that weariness had increased with every case thereafter. He thinks of these things and thinks of how he swore he wouldn't worry Bilbo with his whinging.  
  
“It was . . . good. Quite good.” Off Bilbo's stern, knowing look, Thorin sighs, but corrects himself grudgingly. “Alright. It was  _grueling_  and awful. Each case was more boring than the last, and my bones began to ache on that torture device that passes for a throne almost immediately. I was snappish, short-tempered, and rather arbitrary. I'm afraid little that could be termed  _justice_  got done today.  
  
“And . . . I missed my hobbit. Terribly,” he adds softly, which wins him Bilbo's loveliest smile and a kiss to go with it. One that warms him from the outside in, the winds bedamned.  
  
“And your hobbit missed  _you_ , terribly . . . mm, how was Fili, now that he's once more on the sidelines of ruling Erebor?” Bilbo murmurs when the kiss has ended and they've started walking again. Thorin snorts.  
  
“Fili's been grinning like a fool all morning and trying to hide it,” Thorin grumbles, remembering the way his nephew had dashed out of the throne room after Court, no doubt impatient to do whatever it is he does with his now freed-up time. Probably off to canoodle with his husband. Weeks have passed since Thorin had been Fili and Bofur's chief witness, and he rather expects the bloom will take some time to wilt off  _that_  particular rose.  
  
He is, despite the burden that is once more on his shoulders—shoulders which don't feel especially strong enough to bear them all—and despite his grumbling,  _happy_  for Fili.   
  
“And Kili? How is  _he_  taking things now that he's—well, I suppose in the same position he was in yesterday?” Bilbo glances up at Thorin, who smiles wryly, bringing his consort's hand up to his lips for a lingering kiss.  
  
“Kili fell asleep standing up about halfway through Court.”  
  
Bilbo blinks. “ _Again_?”  
  
“Yes, again.” Thorin nods. “And through the first half, he kept 'advising' me to have litigants and petitioners hanged, or drawn-and-quartered.”  
  
Shaking his head, Bilbo looks up at the sky thoughtfully. “One hopes that Kili's son takes his duties a bit more . . .  _seriously_  than his father.”  
  
Thorin sighs, thinking of the child that would be  _Fili's_  heir . . . the child that Tauriel now carries, and she and Kili  _still_  without a contract on the horizon. Which benighted status needs to change before the child is born, if only for its own sake and place in Erebor's society.  
  
“Durin's heir— _my grand-nephew_ —may be half-elven, but one thing he will  _not_  be is a bastard born outside of a binding contract. Those two  _will_  sign  _some sort_  of valid contract, even if it's at sword-point,” Thorin mutters, and Bilbo's gaze turns from the sky to his husband, immediately sharpening and narrowing.  
  
“ _What_  was that?”  
  
“Er, nothing, my love,” Thorin is quick to say. For they've had this discussion before—at least once a day since Tauriel and Kili had come to them a month ago, hand in hand, looking rather chagrined and contrite, and told king and consort that they were to be grand-uncles by the end of spring. Thorin and Bilbo had had this discussion and had it, and had it again. And while Bilbo understands that the child's place among Durin's folk for his entire life is at stake, he still has some distinctly  _hobbit_ -ish and relaxed notions about children born out of wedlock and dwarvish laws regarding primogeniture.  
  
“You aren't, perhaps, thinking about our grand-nephew again, are you? And about forcing Kili and Tauriel to marry?”  
  
Thorin pastes as innocent an expression on his face as he's capable of. Bilbo merely bends another stern look at him. “Of course not!” he lies, his eyes not meeting Bilbo's.  
  
“Well. I should hope  _not_.” Huffing, Bilbo squeezes Thorin's forearm reassuringly. “It'll work itself out, love. Kili and Tauriel will sign a contract in their own time, I'm sure.”  
  
“Well, 'their own time' had better come before the child is born, or else I'll have to declare him legally unfit to hold the throne, myself,” Thorin says under his breath, but Bilbo hears him, anyway. And he gets that look on his face that means he's about to start up the same argument that'd seen them go to bed fuming at each other last night, instead of drifting off in each other's arms, sated and happy.  
  
Thorin—who's only recently recovered full use of his prick—has no interest in losing another opportunity to use it, and quickly glances around him for something to distract Bilbo before he can work up a head of steam. “Er, ah—look! It's snowing!” Thorin points up with his cane at the sky, which has indeed opened to release the first few precursors of what will likely turn into feet of snow over the next few days.  
  
Bilbo looks up in surprise, brightening as flakes land on his face and hair. “Oh, how lovely!” he breathes in tones of child-like wonder. Then he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, catching snowflakes upon it.  
  
After a few flakes have been caught and melted, Bilbo turns his face to Thorin's for a kiss. Thorin happily obliges his hobbit, who tastes chilly and sweet. But Bilbo's breaking the kiss rather soon, to close his eyes and tilt his face up to the sky, tongue decidedly out once more.  
  
Entranced, Thorin watches as Bilbo laughs delightedly when another flake melts on his tongue, and Thorin . . . has never found Bilbo Baggins to be more lovely. Has never felt such a swell of love and pride and affection for  _anyone_  fill his heart and  _move_  it.  
  
Then he's emulating his consort, chuckling when a slowly drifting flake coolly tickles his tongue and instantly disappears.  
  


THE END. . . .

At least of this particular story. Stay tuned for more in this 'verse in the near future :-)


End file.
